2021, like the other previous years, broke me while a part of it decorated me whole again as well. But it was of a different level. That year forced me to accept my failures, reflect upon things I had kept on cultivating but only cornered me up the creek without a paddle, humble myself, and remind myself again of the reality that the world does not revolve around me. I am not the sun.
2021 was not about me. It was not about the things I could offer to the world but about the strangers, the people close to home — it was just their time. It was the pain existence had inflicted on me and the unexpected love from them (the people) which healed me. It was the other people’s, on the other side of this conscious existence, time to offer something for me, take care of me, and complement to my crests and troughs — but mostly the latter. Nonetheless, I am grateful. Again, I am not the sun.
2021 perhaps was a time of distance, silence, just like the stars. Perhaps, I was a sky of stars, gazed at by those who wanted comfort, clarity, tranquility in the cold, quiet night. The sky of stars — despite its distance and its thousands of stars running out of chemicals — is loved, admired, and explored. The sky of stars is for the people who wanted solace. I get it, as likewise, I needed it too.
But this year, I want to be the sun, but not in the ways I used to think and do. I want to give light and life; I want to go back to the drawing board and give back.
I can still be like those stars when needed though; anyway, the sun is also a star — just a dwarf.
Tales and Renaissance 