Many of the pieces from my past bother me more than they should, but no matter how I juggle them, they seem mismatched, and I am unable to form a cohesive whole. I wonder if the people milling about me ever have the same problem. The same sensation of being someone else, of living someone else’s dream.
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.