She Was a Lone Star

She was a lone star in a sea of darkness. A perpetual movement of all that was longing to become. She would scramble on dry days to seek the light under shadows of her lonely life. The same lonely life that was filled with people bedazzling the dance floors. Spectacular evidence that her life was full and pulsating. You are alive, they assured her. You are living.

Every night was met with an implosion of wrestling thoughts. Of ideas bigger than her squared up room. She'd scribble words on the walls to feel their reflective glow. Someone will hear me. Someone will understand.

When the sun would rise in the morning after her nights of holy declarations she would run to find the sun, her face tilted up to catch each ray. Feed me sweet sun, she'd whisper. Feed me enough so I can go into this day. Her body full of light and her heart brightened just so, she'd merge into the living hoping she had just enough light to make it through her day.

The nights and days filled and depleted her. She'd feel the love and the despair. Her room complete with carved out words and her bed a playground for sleepless nights. Pages after pages just voluminous spectacles of her merging soul.

Someone will hear me. Someone will.

One day when the light was blinding her she found someone who spoke her language. She watched the face and paid attention to the sound of their voice. Her forehead broke into lines of questioning as the voice dropped reverent truth into her heart.

She watched.
And watched.
Until the voice boomed loudly enough for her to smooth the lines of her brow and she broke open her face to smile from within.

You, the voice said, are a lot. The eyes leaning in so she would feel the power of this statement.

The lonely star shrieked in glee. Someone had found her. Someone had heard her.

She knew the weight of her aliveness was a lot. That each blank stare she found before the voice was the affirmed yes to the fear of her little body. With the bigger than life being. With the larger than life becoming.

The new voice didn't waver. Didn't stumble when in the wake of her big and ferocious words. When her emotions became dark, quiet or alive and electric. When she questioned the voice and would blatantly say... I don't buy that. The voice would carry her through to the end. Solid. Massive. Stable.

Her body simmered down and the sun was put on hold. Every ray of loving light flooded her bigger than life tiny body as she stretched across the canvas of that inviting bed. The words were felt not spoken and for the first time in her life, she was seen with the eyes of knowing.

That she was a lot. 
And the voice wasn't scared.

In love,

Christy FunkComment