And more melodramaticism:
The rustle of the fallen October leaves crunch through the stillness
as I meander along the sidewalk in the dark, deserted town. It's
early for the sleepy little town—2:30 am—and everyone is still in bed.
The dream won't go away, the dream that has haunted me for years.
Ironically, I had set out on this walk to rid my mind of the phantom
in my dream, but now that I'm all alone pacing in the dark with the
giant oaks shielding me from the loneliness in the sky and the haunted
hounds yipping to each other and the breeze caressing the nape of my
neck, I find I can think of nothing else. I smell the dampness in the
air, and I remember. And I see the stars .
Life is a riddle, only solved by those delusional enough to believe
they're right. I believed I was right that night. That was a happier
time—a time when the summer afternoon brought the smell of freshly-cut
hay and the zephyrs danced gaily across the fields, spawning little
whirlwinds that leaped and swirled and played. I had worked 15 hours
that day in the harvest, and the world was right. Hard work blessed
and cultivated fruits for the labors of the faithful, and nothing
could not be solved. I retired that night with a full mind and an
empty soul, waiting to write my future, with a full box of new
crayons, in my spirit. The world was mine, and I was hungry for life,
before I met the phantom.
I dreamed that night of a long, winding road leading through dark,
musty, cold woods. Bright stars gleaned their power from heaven, and
the desertion of the road dared any traveler to traverse its
emptiness. Coyotes howled through the expanse of wilderness, and
nocturnal creatures rustled in the bushes. The trees were bare, and
the frosty coolness beckoned the life of spring and summer to depart,
leaving winter to keep his icy grip on the world. And for the first
time, I knew loneliness; it fell upon me like a chunk of ice dropped
down an unsuspecting back. Even though the stars shown out in all
their glory, the road was pitch black, as if I had fallen into a black
hole where nothing escapes and everything is drawn in. And so, as I
walked along the grass covered, brushy back road, I hummed a song to
myself. As the song of the coyotes settled down and died, and the
brush ceased to rustle, and the wind calmed, I found I was the only
voice in the dark. I lay down on the road with sharp pebbles poking
my back and prepared to go to sleep, when I heard a weeping noise in
the distance. I heard the gnashing of teeth and the stamping of feet.
And so I rose and sought the source of the sadness. My feet were
cold, my mind was numb, and my heart was weak. And, stumbling along,
I came upon the phantom.
The phantom was an old, weathered man. He appeared as if he'd lived
a long life at sea, and his wrinkled skin wreaked of cigar odor, and
his beard looked like a bush mouse's nest. In his shaky,
sun-weathered hand, he grasped a ball of light.
"What's wrong, stranger?" I asked him as I offered him my hand to help
him rise.
"It's all darkness and strife," he replied. Snot bubbled out of his
nose and with each labored breath, I could hear him moan. "I was the
keeper of the stars . Do you understand what that is son? It's the
most important job in heaven. I remember when I was given the
commission, the queen in heaven asked me to watch over the sky and
help guide sailors on the sea with her markers. I asked her what kind
of markers those were, and she replied they were special
markers—markers that lit up the night and held the heavens together.
She then showed me how she made them. She took a huge ball of
firefly's wings, and crushed and mixed and shaped, until she had a
super light that she hung in the heavens. I was excited. I set out
immediately to arrange the stars , and refresh their brightness when
they burned out, and polish their shine. Oh how I loved the stars ,
but I wanted to improve them. I got a can of polish and a clean rag,
and set about polishing them. Oh how they shone! But then, the queen
saw me, and started shrieking. 'What have you done?!!' she shrieked.
She began moaning and wailing, and she told me that I had killed her
children; that the stars were the princes of the sky and the polish
betrayed their brightness and made them fake. She vowed to make new
stars , and so she took her tears and hung those in the heavens, and
that's what you see tonight. But you see, they aren't the real stars ,
tears run and meld and change, and you can never believe what is
written in the stars now. The heavens shift easily, because they only
have tears holding them together. Life changes with the wind or with
the season or with the mood of the people. Nothing is permanent, and
it's all my fault."
I felt remorse for the phantom. He had poured his heart out to me, a
stranger, and all he had left of his life were some runny, shiny angel
tears in his hand. He rubbed his hands together, and the tears
glowed, then faded and dried, like a splash of mud on a newly painted
truck. I promised him that I would help him place the stars , and
paste the heavens, that I would try to hold the world together. My
assistance seemed to calm him, and he soon relaxed. A cold wind blew,
and he stopped breathing. I sat down beside him, but he vanished.
Now, every time I'm alone and I look into the sky, I see the tears of
angels, and I hear weeping in the night. I know the sky may fall with
each tear the queen angel cries, but they coyotes still howl, and the
wind still blows, and the night is still dark.
