By Sejin Choi, ’22
Ever since she was a little girl, she felt like she was missing something. She dreamed that she would one day find it and finally feel whole. If not, it was okay, because she doubted that anyone ever felt whole anyways.
The first time she looked up at the drunk, heavy night sky, she knew at first glance that the only thing that could make her feel whole were the stars. Since then, she sky gazed every night, trying her best to articulate to others the sense of fulfillment and thirst she got simultaneously. During the day, she slept away her emptiness most of the time, and when she was awake, she thought about the stars. “When I look at them, I don’t remember my empty self but just looking isn’t enough. Am I in love with the stars?” she’d ask herself and others, and instead of nodding, people would comment, “They keep you alive yet they consume your life.”
The more she grew, the more she morbidly attached herself to the fantasy of having the stars in her hands.
No fireplace, no lantern, no firefly, no match, no glow-in-the-dark galaxy stickers on her ceiling, no light other than the stars satisfied her. Her family and friends begged her to stay on the ground—where they were and where she was safe—but she didn’t think that was living. To live was to want something, to devote yourself to something, and to finally get a hold of something even if it cost you everything you owned. To live was to suffer. To live was to be beautiful.
So she climbed until she reached a place where she could see the stars closely and where nobody would stop her from pursuing her dream. Breathing heavily at the sight of the stars so near, she sat and watched them shine. Everything became clear in her mind, and she was ready.
She leaped to grasp the stars.
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