by Andrew Irwin
I am the star you wished upon, twinkling in the sky. Racing through a deep and silent vacuum, drifting ever away, I have seen you, as isolated and as alone within the company of billions as I.
Reaching towards you, I grant your wish, and send it at light speed, the fastest speed there is. This is the best I can do.
The universe is crowded with wishes, granted and sent from stars near and far. We gods know best the sorrow of a lonely heart. Those among us who are of some luck have a host of planets to watch over and warm, to caress, love and observe, but the happiness of such skewed relationships rarely lasts. Planets return no love and, over time, grow cold in our arms. In the end, they are mute receivers and offer no more companionship than the gilded comet rip-roaring past.
Those most enviable are the mothers and the fathers who nurture life and play guardian in the sky. Mother Sol is just one. They are the fortunate few.
My rays are quantum entangled and I sense all that I touch, but all that I touch is dead and gone, confined to realms of history. Now only exists in the presence of another. Without it, there is only yesterday. I have never experienced the joy, the excitement, or the heartbreak of now. Now is the gift of life lived in relativity.
I love you, but this is a story I wrote millennia ago. It will never be yours and will only be experienced as the ebb and flow of time, surrounding you one day as you drift eternal.
I wish upon a great star that the weight of a wish granted was as intangible, as ethereal, as a dream. I wish that you, the one who I love, would last the decades, the centuries, the millennia it will take for my answer to be caught and imbibed by your heart. To be embraced and lived.
I wish you could see the universe as I can. Not an endless void with the distance between us expanding ever more but as a space alive with the colours of the billions upon billions of interstellar threads that wind and weave from dreamer to lover to loved.
Will you know me, when you drift by my side? Will you kiss me when I take you into my heart? Will I know, for a fleeting instant, the feeling of now? The scent, but for a moment, of solace?
A quintillion lovers at my fingertips and all of them forever out of reach.
The sound of the universe is the heart song of the stars; just as the blackest depths of your oceans are filled with the whales’ songs, the universe is filled with our longing.
Stars cry, but our tears are vaporised before they are formed and scattered through the ages. They are collected piecemeal by comets who flit occasionally by.
Comets are desire. They tickle the filaments of dream and wish alike, sampling loves, fears and possibilities. The fires in their hearts burn for eons, but with every collected tear a patina of loss gathers. The rays of my brothers and sisters refract and the comet, gathering understanding through relative loss, shines in wisdom for an age. But the universe is vast and the immense isolation of the stars slowly crystallises into the cold weight of dreams and loves unrequited. Little by little, the burden grows until one day, the comet can no longer surf the filaments. Thus, the comet dies and the once bright spark shrinks to a quiet ember. Its burden burns but it holds onto life until the red day its orbit declines and it is drawn to meet with a planet. No longer mere comet, it is destroyer or creator; which, it will never know.
Of the dreams that I receive, so much of their weight is invested in lives extended, sometimes in perpetuity, sometimes for a day, and a great mass gathers in the hope of lives rebirthed or relived. I grant these dreams but I wonder if you know just how lucky you are to never receive. You have only one life and it is short, but within that life you are privileged to know the brilliance of the spectrum of life. From the blackest depths of loss to the transcendence of unity and the moments of love and understanding which lay in between. You live in the wondrous place that is my dream. One of communication, one of relevance, one brief moment of now.
When I die, it will not be over in an instant. I will first expand to an area vastly greater than my whole and I will consume all that I touch, the dreams, the wishes granted, those unfortunate enough to be passing by. When I have reached as far as I can stretch, I will draw them into myself and form an all knowing, all feeling, singularity.
We black holes. Silent. The no-longer-transmitting receivers of the dreams of the universe. Perhaps, in this dark continuance, I will know the meaning of my life. The relative value of the interactions I had, of the portions of the universe to which I granted life. As I let go of the granting, maybe I will see what I have created.
I love you.
You are made of the ashes of my father.
You are rendered fluid by the tears of my mother.
You are given life by the wishes of the millions who dreamed and died before you.
Every time I kiss you, every time I receive, I wish for you to live and take solace.