The world was full of rain last night. The world was a wide dark ocean. And my little house was a boat sailing through coves of stars unseen behind the clouds; sailing by the touch of dreams.
It's an old, old childhood feeling. But what's so wrong with slipping back into the warm heart of childhood sometimes? I don't believe we grow up, I believe we grow more, that's all : more experiences, self-layers, wishes, wisdom. We don't leave anything behind. And any moment we want we can be seven again, listening to rain fall on heavy dark hills where dragons coil nameless in the forest like lost fragments of old, strange stories, even though the rain we are really hearing is over rooftops, endless rooftops, in a land plucked of its trees.
When I went outside this morning, the sky had been peeled, and all its stars revealed. They looked like specks of love and sorrow in the heart of a great king. Every star a story, as is every speck of dust in the world. I have been looking at those stars forever. I've seen them through trees and white city towers and rising over mountains. I've lain on the sea looking at them. I have memories of starlight all through me. Scientists say those stars are ghosts. The sky is like us - not growing up, not becoming, but already itself, its oldest pieces still shining even though they have long burned out.