Somewhere, out there, exists another universe that tells a better story of you and me. We are together. We rent a townhouse in Georgetown, one made of bricks and a cherry wine door. We drink birthday cake milkshakes out of mason jars in the summer, and take midnight walks on the first snow of winter. Life is warm and familiar.
“I like the stars. It is the illusion of permanence, I think. They’re always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend – I can pretend things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don’t last, and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend…”
It has been said that most of us, in fact, are wild. There’s a part of us that still sits unmined. There’s a piece of our soul that still commands stardust, is still locked in the heavens, that part of us that has been described as fire. As hurricanes. Warm and disastrous. We have both the power to weave and the power to unravel.