Long to belong.

Looking down upon the universe, peeping from their quilt, dark and woven in velvet, they shine into the eye of the world. Pondering, what families on earth are like. Close yet apart, connected but departed. There but gone.

On a really dark night, you can see about 1000 to 1500 stars. Trying to tell which is which is hard. The constellations help by breaking up the sky into more manageable bits. They are used as mnemonics, or memory aids. The constellations are totally imaginary things that poets, farmers and astronomers have made up over the past 6,000years (and probably even more!).

Some relationships stand rickety on illusions. They do. Just like constellations help direct with the map of the earth stretched across the sky, these relations direct us to happiness. We are connected but only till the tint is in rose and the sky isn’t stormy. Then they shake, as the clouds march across the gray unhappy sky. Casting the sheen of treachery, they elude. An amusing paradox of faith and fear encompasses and the shine is lost. The shape of every dream disoriented.
If a little girl now sings her rhyme, she knows that they don’t twinkle like jewels anymore. They don’t hold hands in the sky, making an amazing, happy picture. Each, isolated with the other, complete in its own deficiency. There is only the North Star, a few of its soulful rays piercing against the uncouth gray.
The constellations last hope. The girl does at last sigh, without a rhyme, her lost world devoid of direction.
Praying for hope she is closing her eyes to end this constant treachery of the sky and the constellations, and her own moon sinking, her world shredding. Blasting her every illusion, asking
“Where do I belong? To be thee I long!”