And now for something completely different

Finally, it's a cold night out. I can feel the faint breeze touching the stable, warm summer air. A dying fire pops, struggling to keep it's flame dancing in front of me. The pop is barely heard. It's so commonplace. So familiar.

So safe.

I barely register that it's there. The dark canopy above my head has my attention. It's always there, it's a constant. It never leaves, it only changes it's view. I can see satellites moving gingerly across the abyss. I keep searching. Constellations, satellites, planes... it's not what I want. Then again, what do I want?

Under the blanket of darkness, it's hard to tell. It's always hard to tell. The night has a way of bringing things to my forefront, bringing things I never realized were there. It's all there. It's always there. It's just got a different way of presenting itself, of hiding itself.

My thoughts are the night sky. They're always the same, only at a different perspective.

There's a dog barking in the distance. Whatever it is, where ever it is, it's loud and annoying. I can tell it's small.

Not that it matters. It's mere noise, playing against my internal dialogues. So what it is? What is it in my mind that always finds it's way when it's dark? What it is about the dark that's so... liberating? I can feel myself. I can feel all the things that I hide during the day. All of it. It's why I fall asleep watching TV at night. My mind stays silent, consumed by whatever it is that I have playing. The couch is more my bed than my bed. That is until about 5am, when I wake up and drag myself away.

I'm still waiting. I can't find what I'm looking for.

My writing has stopped. Why? Why can't I produce the beautiful words and picturesque scenes like I once could? What's wrong with me? Am I broken? Is it a new found happiness and confidence that's causing a power outage of creativity? Why can't I have my cake and eat it too?

The fire pops back to a barely-there state of life. One lone flame flickers on the edge of a log. It's trying hard to keep up. It puts up a valiant fight and I find myself immersed in the dancing yellow light.

It can't fight hard enough.

Another small breeze. I close my eyes and let the air wash over me. It's refreshing. It's perfect. I could sleep out here.

I sometimes wonder if my mother's refusal to talk to my dad is because of me. To an extent, it hurts. To an extent, I want to punch her in the mouth. Then I realize that it doesn't matter. As much as it might sting, I push the thought away. I have no way of confirming this or denying it. There is just nothing.

The dog has finally stopped barking. The night is thick with undead silence. Undead because it's barely alive. Undead because it doesn't need to be there at all.

I rest my head back after taking another drink of vodka. Typical. I'm becoming my father in both humorous and terrifying ways. There's always a drink in my hand. I know some are talking. There are jokes, snide remarks. No one can label me but myself.

And sometimes, I don't know who I am.

But as surely as the night sky can strip me of my face, the face that few can see past... a face that I LET few see past, the night can also give strength. It gives hope, it gives desire. It gives me a chance.

A chance to appreciate where I am now compared to where I used to be. I used to be broken. I still am broken, but in a semi-functional kind of way. I'll never be perfect. I'll never not be somewhat paranoid. I don't know if I can ever trust more than one or two people fully. I'll always be the night sky. The same person, from a different perspective. For better, or for worse. Forever evolving, forever changing. Always trying to bring out the best in people. In me.

There it is.
There's my shooting star.

I don't even need the wish right now. I just want all to be golden in the sky. And, damnit, I'm going to have my golden sky.

[boom]