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Little star

I always imagine the possibility of having another life. You know, thinking about ‘what if’. Or whether I actually have a chance with you in different settings. Sometimes, my ideas are a bit too bizarre and so elusive that I don’t mind being your mother or sister. Your lecturer or maybe the cleaner where you work. The cashier at the groceries. Or at the petrol station near your house where you always fill up your car at. I imagined myself secretly looking over the counter to appreciate your blank face and admire your charm and realness while you’re probably getting annoyed with the gas pump.

The point is, I wanna be someone else, anyone, other than myself that you currently know of. Anything that makes it easier for me to look at you without you knowing it is me all along. I just wanna know if you’re fine, breathing and alive. Whether you eat and live well etc . Oh yes, maybe I could be your watch, or your shoes.

…or maybe not, because in hundreds iteration of our possibilities in my imagination – I don’t wanna be with you. I cannot be that misshapen puzzle of your perfect life, not even close.

And the bottom line is, there is no another life, my friend. And too bad that there’s none for us in this fucking one life.

With all of that being said, so here we are.

And you, in my cosmic perspective, is a unique occurrence. Like a shooting little star as seen by the earth people. A fine planet where I live with millions of others who are never aware of my existence. Most of us are pretty fucked up, and so we’re too busy fixing our lives. Nobody really cares about each other, and almost nobody cares about me too – but I. I live.

And I live swearing by your occurrence that happened long back in my memories, somewhere some time I can’t remember anymore because life without you feels like an eternity and I don’t have to live so long to understand how hundreds and thousand years feels like, not knowing how you’re doing.

Now that I’ve survived my eternity, I guess I can live like this. When I get tired, I will go outside at night, reaching out to the outer space wondering which one is you among the millions of galaxies and replaying your beautiful outburst in my mind like a tattoo on my dilated pupils.

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