stick on glowie stars

When I was little I shared a room with my little brother. We had bunk beds. I got to sleep on the top because I’m the oldest. We had those glowie stick on stars that kids like to pluck to the ceiling. They were so close to me that I could touch them just by sitting up and stretching out my finger. In a split second these magic plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars would transport me to a desert where I’d roll down the sand with my camel in tow, or traipsing through the rainforests of Brazil, or kayaking down the ripples of the Colorado River. Every dream felt not only accessible, but also entirely real in those moments that I sat up and reached out to touch my stars. My glowie stars only shined for me, right above my head and my head alone, they’d provide me all the comfort I needed when I awoke, frantic from a nightmare or heartbroken by a dream I learned was simply that: a dream. Yet the glowie stars allowed me to create. They gave me a safe space to discover and hope for all these adventures to come to life. And now that I’m older and I don’t share a room nor bunk beds with my brother, I have all the fuzzy feelings towards stick on glowie stars. They were my magic, even when they never knew.

Now, after so many years of moving around, meeting new people, and living in different spaces, I feel even more moody about stars, and not just the fake glow-in-the-dark ones. Having consistences in this unexpected life can be one of the most settling things. Stars have become one of my biggest comforts. The same ones exist all throughout the galaxy, are always present, even when the clouds choose to cover them. It’s a beautiful assurance to be able to look up into the vast, endless black anywhere you are in the world and see shiny, glowie stars beaming back at you.