The events and characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
My life does not vignette for the benefit of your warm fuzzies.
And then I think, maybe being totally perfect isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Maybe there is a fear that comes late at night, on a rare night alone, in the dark of a cold winter after the city has quieted its daily celebration. Maybe there is a fear that it might not last. Maybe there is a knowledge of terror, of that sun of success and comfort and ease making its way towards the horizon. Maybe there is an uncertainty of how long the ensuing night will last. A lack of experience of how long that closest star will be pointed at the other side of the world.
Or maybe it’s because that sun has already made a trip around. Darkness had already visited a life, and that life decided during the night that the stars were not to be trusted. It was the longest night of her existence, and she swore in the middle of cold, early morning hours that if the sun ever came up again, she would revel in it, full of spite for whoever or whatever sent it back across the sky. They were not to be trusted. They were not to be thanked.
And then I think, this night is beautiful. The stars form patterns against the haze of the city. A candle casts subtle tones over the pages of a book. The silence allows other voices to be heard.
The pain allows for the pleasure. The loneliness teaches what affection is. The darkness reminds us that without the light we bump our knees on countless coffee table corners.
We can’t pretend that the day will last forever. We can’t force the dawn with our anger and betrayal.
We can live. We can learn. We can accept our fates of suffering, and if we are lucky, that suffering will teach us how not to force the sun to set on other lives sharing this universe with us.
My life does not vignette to make you see how perfect I am.