March 26, 2003 - 5:45 p.m.
Somehow, I forgot what it was like to look outside and really see hoe beautiful the nighttime is. But I rediscovered what it was like last night. I was so tired, and yet I couldn't fall asleep. The streetlights outside just seemed to glare at me with a dark yellow light. So I peeked my head out the crack of my window, and my heart stopped beating. This was it. This was exactly what Van Gogh had been seeing. He must have seen the way the streetlamps shone on the houses with golden light, and how the sky was the color of black velvet mixed with indigo silk. He must have seen the stars, so bright and beautiful.
I looked at the stars, trying to find one to be mine. My star, forever. One for me to wish on for good luck, so that all of my dreams would come true. And I found one, beautiful and bright. Only it was falling...
Was it a meteor? A falling star? A supernova, ready to explode?
None of these, for I could tell by the faintly blinking lights that it was only an airplane. And all the other stars were only airplanes, too, with red and blue lights flickering on and off. And it made me sad and angry and hollow inside.
And all of a sudden, I wished to be somewhere else. Somewhere where I could find adventure and love or maybe just peace. And it wasn't depression either. It was just a longing for something different, a reawakened dream that would never come true.
