• thewriterwithamillionstories 2w

    To the children of the stars

    Come out. Come out and play. I know the world doesn’t think much of you, of the lost souls wandering in the gardens alone at midnight, of the poets of drown in rivers of their own sorrow, the children of the stars that can barely guide themselves home. Of the silent singers, and the motionless dancers, and every dreamer who feels like a part of a jigsaw puzzle where the bigger picture doesn’t quite make sense. I know how it feels, to be caught in a sandstorm and feel like you’re drowning, because no matter what you do, it’s never going to make a difference. I know the guilt that comes out of the realization that you’re not doing things, that everyone else in the world is going somewhere, and here you are, running a marathon in quicksand, defending yourself with a switchblade in the middle of a battlefield filled with the deafening noise of bullets, holding an umbrella in a tornado. I know what it’s like to not quite fit in.

    So let’s not fit in. Let’s walk in strange patterns on the streets, and let’s lift up our feet and keep it on the desk, and let’s stretch out our arms and relax. It’s okay to stand out, but more than that, it’s okay to blend in, to find your happiness in the quiet of the universe. It’s okay to want to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, and it’s also okay to embrace that chill the moon brings. It’s okay now. Come out and play.

    ©thewriterwithamillionstories