18 July 2012
I don’t care what anybody says—there is magic all around us.
You don’t believe me? Gaze with me at the night sky, at the sparkling fragments
of diamonds and gems that have scattered the blackness. Wait patiently, and you
will experience the rebel star that refuses to dance in its divinely designated
place on the heavenly dance floor: he is called the Shooting Star. He races
through the others, and they are quite taken aback by his borderline-rude
disregard for the way things were set up. He does not care, for he knows his
purpose. He stands for what the other stars cannot.
He is the life-changing spark of creativity a Parisian
artist had while sitting in his dim apartment and gazing at the atmosphere for
some inspiration. He is the simple hope of a child clutching his mother’s hand
as she tells him to make a wish on the otherworldly glimmers his young eyes
widen at. He is the tear drop of a young, tired lover whose passion has turned
out to be an utter disappointment and waste of time. He is the laughter of an
elderly man living alone in his nursing home as he realizes that there are
still simple joys in this life to be had, even in being alone. He is the high
school dropout’s fierce yearning for significance and to travel far away from
the suburban imprisonment he was born into. He is those moments that are born
in fire, that define the impossible-to-predict course of our wild stories.
The constellations may be noble and comforting in their
stance, in their orderly drifting across the universe to a rhythm that will
always be. Yet, the miracle of the shooting star is what humanity really needs;
the legend of the shooting star is all the unexplainable messiness of life, and
the irrational hope that anchors our hearts to our dreams.
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