Windancer

Now I feel you move
And every breath is full
The Mystic's Dream, Loreena McKennitt

where i live, there are not many stars.

the street lamps brightened up the otherwise quiet lanes. the cats groaned lazily once in a while. the night is silent. so silent and forlorn like the way one loses an eyelash.

the track on the mediaplayer from long ago is playing. over and over again. the familiar feeling washed over me each time i listened to my secret garden. the sentimentality it evoked, like a child when he learned his first step, the beauty of the grassland in front when the blind first opened her eyes, the maiden ride on the ferriswheels.

our environment reflected us. we looked at others the way others looked at us. we were each other's mirrors.

there were little scattered pieces of us leaving it to others to create new dimensions for us, awaken new worlds. there were faces that we have remembered, people we held in our hearts and there were those inconspicuous ones that we did not know we have forgotten. those lives whom we have touched are touched forever.

the vicissitudes of life turned us into acrimonious slugs we do not know existed. so subtle and quiet that when we look at the children whom we once were, we are surprise to find in them the old us, and that we were once like them. we walked on empty streets thinking that we do not matter, unaware that where we go, we bring forth our fates. we are frightened that we would fade away without leaving imprints in others' lives, trying to find ourselves in others. we are the sojourners looking out, trying to recognize the next milky way that will lead us to our success.

but it does not matter anymore.

the stars have burned out long ago. the night is dark. but we will always be the illuminating anomalies that beamed through the darkest ages of all the universe.

and we will definately be.