By Camila Toriello

Sometimes I’ll tilt my head to the sky, and give my breath to the stars. I’ll close my eyes and imagine inhaling all of that unknown wonder, and I’ll ask myself if it would still be beautiful if I were one. What would happen if I was a star, would someone else give their breath to me? Or would they pray upon a shinier, more colorful, and artistic star?

On the days that it is harder to drag my feet on the sage green grass, or save myself from the humidity of the rain, all I can do is wonder and look at the stars, and even if the terrestrial body is composed of calcium, iron, and nitrogen; elements that are found everywhere, they seem less unique if they are what keep me alive. The same elements are found in the twinkling infinite above, and all of a sudden, it makes sense why I find the light in you so wonderful.

The wisdom of something that does not speak.

And the stars, they mock me. They all shine without worrying if one glows a different shade of the prettiest of pinks, or even if one of them turns into a sun, they mock the art of caring with their oblivious beauty. 

And even if I am left in awe by their company, the stars have been my biggest—and only teacher, and without saying a word, or uttering a sound, they have always spoken the words that I need to keep going, to keep living. They hydrate my senses in a way that I could never know how. And I envy them for so many things, one of them being the reminder that they hold—that it is okay to keep falling, to keep making the same mistakes. They told me I would never be who I am if I hadn’t. But as they say, misery loves company. And stars are the best ones.

The insufferable

I want to listen to their stories and swim in their sea of souls, and see if I can find mine. To hear them sing the song of life, let them whisper the secret of existence in my ear.

I beg them to tell me where they hide during the day, to take me with them, wherever they go. That is all but what they do. Instead, they sit. Stare. And remind me that that will never be. Their existence is timed and so is mine, so why don’t they let me enjoy their company? Why don’t they take me with them? Why can’t they suffer instead of me? But the days will repeat…

And on the days that the stars make it annoyingly obvious that I can never humanly be them, I exhale to them, the burden of being a terrestrial. 

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Camila Toriello is a 17 year-old student who likes to read and write in her free time.