I’ve always been in love with the sky. Especially the nightsky. I always find myself automatically lifting my head up to see what the clouds’ pattern and hues are, whether I’m outside or next to a window. But unlike before with only a shallow sparkle in my eyes, now I attend to it with so much awe and wanting: the moon and the stars have tragically become an uncommon spectacle these days, and in the rare occasions that they do become visible, they are not as luminous and numerous anymore, and worse they just get covered by these thick omenous dark-grey miasma.
How ironic is that: not so long ago, these shiny happy celestial bodies would only hover by the lightless firmament, before the listless eyes of my childhood–prodigally, in all their glory. But now that I’m older and have grown strangely smitten with honest fantasies and inspirited daydreams, such as looking up at the stars and making a wish and identifying my moodswings with the lunar cycles because I’m a Cancerian, a moonchild, half-hoping that there’s a connection to that, they have receded from view. They’re nowhere for the intimist in me to be in commune with.
For longest time now I’ve been trying to come to terms with what the state of our society has turned into. Hype, commercialism, sensationalism, talentless cardboards–name every single degenerate thing and the Modern Times has a centerstage for it. I wish I could say I can just abandon civilisation for the wild, but then that would mean admitting defeat on my part. Pondering about this all the time has led me to be irrational and bitter at times, to the point that even the personal things I hold dear that get effed-up I attribute to this day and age.
The thing is the fantasies, daydreams and moodswings have been superimposed by this by these billows of purple haze, looming menacingly all over the dawn of my adulthood. Right at this very moment I’m at the thick of the witching hour, and from where I am now, with my face illuminated only by this artificial light of the computer screen, I can’t see a single star. I’m standing closer to the window now, patrolling my long, longing eyes, up and away, in hopes of being able to tell myself that hey, there’s actually one star there twinkling, don’t be disheartened now. That life isn’t that bad today: you still have your dreams to reach, and only by reaching them with all your heart could you have not only constructive complaints but actually the power to do something about your complaints and change the world.
Just like what it has always been in the recent past. Most probably the heavenly bodies are holding grudges against their people below for turning their preoccupations more and more to things that are essentially meaningless and devoid of depth, that’s why they’ve made themselves scarce. Just scarce, I’d like to believe, and not completely invisible; perhaps if only for the few souls like me who still hang on to their roots and what little values they have.
The moon, the stars, the planets and the sun don’t ask us to move megaliths and pattern them along their outerspatial positions in the manner of the Stonehenge. In mundane words, I believe, them becoming less visible is probably just a way for them to make us realize what we have until it’s gone.
With the sublime combo of history’s casuistries and its Jekylls waiting to be seized again by their Hydes, the heavenly bodies’ evanescence is just the beginning of this dark midnight, and again I would just have to sleep it all off in order to escape and forget for a while.