The Girl In The Sky

Each night she picked the brightest stars from the night sky and squeezed them together. Each morning she threw the bundle up high into the sky, and pulled the moon back down.

She did not grow, or change, or even talk, for she had no one to talk to. Her only purpose was picking, pulling and throwing. She kept the world moving, kept the people sane, but she never got anything in return. She had become forgotten in this new modern world, turned into a mere story told to guide the young ones to sleep.

In the beginning she thought she would be okay, just seeing their happy faces in the sunlight she created was enough. She never felt pain, or hunger, or cold. Her life was easy compared to those below her. She knew she was lucky, to be able to live so simply in her pretty dress made from the fallen stars and stray rays of light, her long, golden hair stained from the countless kisses of the sun and the moon flowing softly behind her.

But she was alone.

She envied the people below her, always so busy with their own lives. Lives they made for themselves. They always had places to be, people to meet, they didn’t have time to look up and bathe in the beauty of the sky she worked so hard on. She wanted to be acknowledged . To have people to praise her and help her, to talk to and laugh with. To have places to be and people to meet. She had grown tired of always being in the same place, to have the whole world right below her, but not being able to explore it.

She wanted to put her hard work into living a good life, eating hearty meals and making a happy family, falling asleep together in beds as soft as the clouds surrounding her, in arms as warm as the raging sun. She wanted to experience love and heartbreak, feel the pain of hunger, feel the fresh breath of a cold winter day, see the world change right in front of her as she wrinkled and grayed. She wanted so much, yet she couldn’t have any of it.

And decides, the sky wasn’t the same as it was when she first started taking care of it. It was no longer the clear, blue ocean that she could never grow tired of. It had become murky and full of waste, leaving her sick and dizzy at times. She had to work twice as hard as before in order keep it even moderately clean. It was her home and the dream of the people below her, yet they gave her pollution in thanks.

She liked to think of how they’d react if the mess they created killed her. When the air around her becomes more toxic gas than anything, and she falls to the ground because she had forgotten what a fresh breath of air felt like. She loved imaging their terrified faces as the moon never left the sky and the sun became a sweet dream, the warmth leaving their skin and their faces pale underneath the soft glow of the moonlight.

Maybe then they’d remember her, the girl who never stopped working, the girl who lived in the sky.

She wondered when she her thoughts had gotten so twisted. When had she started wishing for whatever evils she could think of to descend onto the clueless mortals scurrying on the ground. Maybe she did deserve the pollution that seemed to grow larger each day, because she too had become polluted.

She wanted to live down below, where it was clean and pretty and you could easily forget the growing threat contaminating the sky. She had grown greedy, from living such an easy life, she wanted even more.

And now, as the strength left her body and she fell straight down, she wanted all of it with such a strong urge she almost couldn’t feel her body slowly disappearing, or the tears gliding down her face. The imaginary life she dreamt of so often flashed before her, and the beauty of living passed by in a second. Her sad smile was the last to fade away as she came in contact with the earth, before anyone could even notice her.

And as the last corner of her sweet, pink lips vanished, the sky came to a stop. The moon stood tall in all its glory, surrounded by its army of stars, protected by a shield of soft clouds. The sun lay hidden, its light still bright as ever, as it always will be, but never to be seen again.

Just like she wished, their faces became terrified, their minds confused, and their hearts nervously marched to their own rhythm. The moon never left the sky, the heat of a bright summer day, forgotten.

Picture from:

My Sky

I used to sit and fix my gaze upwards… and I would wonder who I was meant to be.

My sky was meant to be painted in the raw spectrum of the rainbow, where every color jumped in vibrant exclamations of wanting to be great. Every hue in my sky was meant to be lurid and glaring, flaming in its brilliance, thriving in the pulse of its unlovely but spectacular color.

But instead, the sky is pale and pretty, painted from a pallet of clear, fresh tints and sketched from delicate pencils. Soft shades and sweet hues blend in loveliness… but I don’t want the sky to be lovely.

My sky was meant to bleed reds and greens, blues and oranges, yellows and purples, and every single shade of gray. It was meant to catch fire from the force of its unrestrained passion and daring fervency.

But instead, the sky falls apart like the petals of a rose, perpetually dropping in silence and taping itself back together with lines from forgotten melodies.

My sky was meant to be woven from drops of heaven sliding down the horizon like fallen stars. I was meant to hold a needle and thread so I could sew the curve of the sun into a seamless circle that ends where I begin…

…but instead, the muted hush of reality has hemmed itself into the lining of the sky.

my-sky-1My sky was meant to breathe in my ardor and breathe out a freedom that I could take and pin to my spirit to make it wilder. It was meant to curve so that it could fit the splendid arches of the rainbow. It was supposed to unite the strokes of sunrise at the horizon with the arms of trees reaching upwards to stroke the dawn. In its effervescent fearlessness, my sky was supposed to meet the demands of the world with a smirk written in the stars. It was meant to pull vermilion clouds into middle-finger taunts for those who overstep their grace – unashamed and strong. Bold and beautiful, it would be transcendent of expectations and limitations.

But instead, the sky is lined with tentative slips of mist that shyly offer themselves to others, too pleasant to consider brushing away the covers of cordiality.

My sky was meant to be a dome to cover every raindrop of my inexpressible sadness. It was supposed to guard the billowing winds of my panicked terror and stand strong against the depressive iron-bleak, snow-stilled winters. Against the wild rains and slashing sleets of my ire, my sky would hold together. It was supposed to fortify the scope of my emotions like a snow-globe that captures the essence of who I was meant to be.

But instead, the sky is gentle and carries only a trace of the emotion suppressed beneath remote breezes. The sky only just hints at traces of sentiment laced in the acquiescent spread of

My sky was meant to be a liquid mirror patchwork of everything I’ve ever felt, it was meant to bind the ranges of my rainbow to the steadiness of blue. It would reflect my lights and reflect my darks, it would safeguard the malignancies of shadows lurking between my heartstrings, and it would magnify the brilliance of moonlight playing among strands of my soul. To balance my wretchedness and my cheer in the steadiness of midday, my sky was supposed to blend the sunrise and the sunset in the swirl of daylight.

But instead, the sky hides its darkness behind the demure serenity of phantom peace and still nights that are perpetually holding their breath.

My sky was meant to bind my turbulent emotions to the ghosts of my tears, to take clotheslines of the words I will never say and braid them into the tresses of willow trees.

my-sky-3But instead, the sky is complacent. It’s satisfied with the sweetness of pale pastels. The sunrises are dusted with watered-down versions of rose and peach. The sky is simple and sleepy and the sun shines placidly. The sky is wistful, a quiet reminder of everything I could have been.

My sky was meant to be beautiful, daring, a quilt of everything I’ve ever felt, a patchwork of everything I want to be.

But instead, the sky is polite and pretty, pleasant and passive… predictable. It’s suffocatingly silent, shallow in its stagnant stillness. And it’s not enough.

My sky was meant to be dauntless and striking – I was meant to be dauntless and striking.

But I am not. I was meant to be so much more than this. But I am not.

Nowadays, I sit and fix my gaze upwards… and I wonder who I am.






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