Standing in the middle of summers dream, drenched in the cooling dry heat of the twenty third hour, subdued amid an oasis of calm. Look into the clear night sky. The stars blanket the darkness above you, yet each is singular, each alone, a distance between them.
***
We are all authors of our own story. As day fades and insecurities feed upon the darkness, as sleep consoles, we are destined, fated, to a life of need. A life where nothing seems real, and the hours feel like minutes and the minutes like seconds. When reality curves time so that one ineffectual moment blends into another no matter the epoch, no matter the distance. Time protects us yet constrains us like bars of a prison. Each day, each lost moment, adds weight and size to the cell we create. We cannot change the past, neither can we seem to learn from it regardless of who the orator is. Uncertainty in ourselves holds us back from where we believe we should be, where we believe our true potential lies. A footprint etched within the grey dust of the lunar surface may hold as time itself, the lack of force driving the impression away. Is that what we desire of ourselves, to leave a footprint and show our existence was not fleeting. To have a memory live on after we have long departed. Maybe that is our meaning. Maybe that is our want.