There was one episode in Tom and Jerry Show when the very smart Jerry was finally killed by the awkward Tom. I was seven then, and I cried when the little mouse’s ghost rose out of its dead body. The title of that particular episode was “The Graduation”.
Since then, the word graduation has acquired an acutely insane meaning to me: very synonymous to dying, to passing away or finally “graduating” from the earthly existence. If I haven’t found Mr. Webster, I might as well believe that yes, graduation really is the end of life.
Now that I am about to graduate from college (crossed-fingers), I think graduation is really is the end of something, maybe not as gruesome as life, nevertheless poignant in so many ways.
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Your stars are brighter. Look at how they shine day and night for you. And as they shine brighter and circle around you, the more I feel that I am not much compared to them. I am just an equal of Pluto, secluded, cold, and relegated, desperately wanting to be part of your milky way.
To have hoped for your warmth and flicker was ambitious. You are simply light years away. I should have not wished on a star like you in the first place. You don’t make wishes come true. You just don’t and can’t shine for small planets like I am.
It was enough for your small glint to have reached me and for me to have reflected it back in the best way that I could. At least because of you, I have known that in my universe, stars like your magnitude are only for lucky people. Too bad I am not one of them.
From a distance, I will look for your twinkle every night, then. But I am not wishing anymore. I might even see other stars on the vast milky way because there are just so many of them.
But if the time comes when you will fall as a shooting star, I will be the first planet to wish and catch you, even if you are all burnt dust and useless, and even if you are still too far for me to reach.
20 something, quarter-life crisis, loss of love, name it, nothing's weird.
