godspeed, estella.

dearest, you.

remember when i told you that the stars could be ours if only we kept the courage to dream through the night? we were both null and naïve then, before the dark became a tangible force that resided permanently in the closet, under the bed, within our minds.

i think of us now, of that conversation we had all those years ago, and i wonder if you regret any of it. it was us and the stars and mayhaps there was no distinguishable difference between us and the dots that littered the sky like pepper spilt on the floor. we became what we thought were grown people but little did we know that adults and suns are synonyms of the same meaning. it took only strength to mature, to bloom until we fully understood just what our childish minds could not: that there was beauty even in the thick black; that the stars were not bright 'cept when thrown onto the canvas of nothing, of unnoticed, of isolation. and this was where our affliction began: blindness hindered us like an astronaut trying to reach the moon whilst caged in a cell of his own making. don't you see? we only became bright when we embraced the dark around us, within us, whatever. this was where we belonged. where we were perfected. purified. cicatrized. there was something beautiful about the tar we found in our hearts, the way we commanded it when it threatened to silence us. the way we forged diamonds from the inky coal of our bones. every scratch, every burn, every drop of blood formed a story we're still learning to tell, yet with every word, i feel simultaneously closer to you and farther than ever before. the shadows yield mere breath, where we are not caged by our expectations and the expectations held over us like the inevitable death of a character we have come to love. in the shadows, we didn't have to be anyone and at the same time, we could be anyone. there was a kind of surety in the not-knowing, as ironic as that would seem. we could be no one and someone all at once, both the ant squished 'neath a girl's sparkly light-up sketchers shoe and the girl herself, intentions debatable.

there's a part of me--however small and insignificant--that misses that version of us. we thought we could take on the world, little us in our treehouse-turned-fortress and patchy capes. that is, until your mother called us inside to leave for church because gosh, sage, it takes you ten minutes to find your shoes and you're going to make us late! but we were free then, free to think our thoughts and feel our feelings without anyone breathing down our necks. but i suppose if i'm being honest, no star ever came into being without first surviving unimaginable pressure, gravitational forces so intense that the cloud of gas had no choice but to redefine itself, to recreate itself as something new. something beautiful. something that now inspires us to do the same. and that's not to say that it didn't--that it doesn't--that it won't--hurt like hell, and who's to say that we'll come out of it alive? but if this is all for perfection, then count me in. because i refuse to remain in this state of perpetual unfinishing. refinery has never been easy or comfortable, but it's the process that makes the flawless result so breathtaking.

you never understood that; i can see it all so clearly. you only ever cared about the now, but of course there's nothing wrong with that at four, eight, twelve years old when you're young and free, when the future is as distant as the stars we dreamt upon. but you're older now. i'm older now, and it's time to step up and accept that who we are in this moment is not our forever. so allow yourself to be hurt beyond imaginable redemption, and you might just find that the stars are far closer than you ever thought.

godspeed, estella.