One of the realest things to ever stir my chest
Drafted four hours after sunset in Bahia Honda State Park on February 15th.
It’s clichéd to be inspired by the night sky, and yet getting to know the stars feels something like a revelation. Tonight I find Polaris without help even though the northern horizon is washed with artificial light. I think I might see the Milky Way, just a barely-there glow near Orion, and the internet confirms my guess when I look it up later. I can point Sean to Taurus without hesitation when he asks.
This newfound, growing intimacy—between me and the universe—is exhilarating. I walk to the bathroom building with my neck craned, weaving across the pavement like a drunk even though we have yet to uncork our bottle of wine. I am affected by something simpler than alcohol, awash in the drug that touched my ancestors hundreds of thousands of years ago when they, too, looked up: wonder.
All those specks of light, stark against the black, are pinncacles of awe and imagination and comfort. I am so small. Our universe is infinite. What is there to do but look and look and look? Point and exclaim and feel my heart beat and measure my breath and write about it all, clumsily, later?
I keep realizing clichés are often clichéd because they’re true. It’s no accident that the night sky inspires me like it’s inspired person after person since the dawn of our species. This is no boring, overused metaphor—no tired, oh-come-on experience.
It’s one of the realest things to ever stir my chest.
I only regret that it took me 28 years to appreciate with depth.