Even The Stars Lie Sometimes

Even the stars lie sometimes.

Sometimes loneliness creeps in. And you can't save yourself from it. Sometimes you're in a crowd and depression falls on those most fortunate. Time is a thief; it steals from us that which is most precious.

i read a post from a sixteen year old tonight:

im obsessed with a lifesyle i want, but cant have for legally another 2 years.
even then, i dont think ill be prepared.
im done with being a teenager.
i dont dont dont want to hear that ill be saying i wish i was 16 again when im in my twenties.
dont tell me, I already know.
I want to be on my own, make my own decisions, pay my own bills, do what i want, when i want to, with whoever i want to do it with.
its whats been consuming my brain for the past 3 days, it wont leave my thoughts.

and then i thought: but you don't know. you just can't know. i stare down the barrel of 31 and though i'm frightened, i am not perfect. time is one unforgiving thief. you're wiped out of a decade before you've even had a chance to sigh. and then you seek to fear the future, but the future is past before you truly feel it.

Stasis calls the pondering fools of immortality. If only such fools dallied, our poem would be written. Only death isn't fooled.

Today i write a thousand characters and not one means much in the scheme of things. Four or Fifteen people will read this or won't make it this far and so my words are still private. My thoughts are still dormant. A message in a bottle sunk to the bottom of a sea. No island rescuer to pull its precious curled fibers from a sacred lair. And yet I feel depression sliding off, like raindrops on a black umbrella where despair shrugs off freedom.

We, the American People, worship the white man and allow him to prejudice us against our brethren of darker skins. We call the President, god, and then he determines the fate of our grandchildren (or yours as I shan't have any). Because our children's children will live on islands of trash and global warming will thrust her deadly weapons upon them. They shall reap the unholy crop, not us. For them, we sow a thousand SUVs and they shall reap destitution and famine. We drink oil as if our glass can't ever be empty; we taste its liquid darkness as it seeps, warm and salty, downwards into our own oblivion. We won't face ourselves until we're hungover like a dying animal, grasping a white bowl of regret, its waters circling, circling.

The night toils on and sleeplessness beckons. I shan't answer her call tonight. I have lines to write, but another night I will dance with her. Because she won't have it any other way.