I wonder if it hurts to be a star, to burn for billions of years only to explode and fade away, for us they are only a point of light in our endless games of connect the dots, what is all this starlight for if all we do is build our cities to outshine the sky?

I don’t remember my childhood. Everything before the age of four is a mystery to me and I base the past on tales told and dusty photo albums, who knows who I might’ve been, who knows, what I’ll remember when I’m eighty?

She is the girl with bubblegum lips and ivory smiles and you’ve been texting her all night, it’s three am, it’s three am and oh my god you asked her out.

You imagine yourself as the moon, what have you seen? Who have you been? You pull the tides of the ocean. You have been scarred with every meteor crashing against your pale surface. People have walked upon you and left their footsteps. The marks are still there. And you remember.

The worst of being awake at three am is when you wonder what makes you a person at all? Maybe you aren’t real. Maybe no one is real. Maybe you don’t know the definition of real.

Maybe sitting on mountain tops with winter air in your forever lungs isn’t what makes you alive. Maybe the stars that glow in the dark on your bedroom ceiling aren’t so different from the stars beyond. Maybe you are just one grain of sand in the mighty sea and it will not matter who you might’ve been.

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