That night, I stole the stars.

There were so many I didn’t think anyone would notice, so I reached up, and plucked one, like a cherry ripe with the season, and studied it in my hands.

It was much smaller than I thought it would be and glowing like a firefly.

My hands cupped around it and its glow warmed my face and reassured me that it was mine and mine alone. My star.

When I tried to put it in my pocket it slipped through my fingers. I scrambled to catch it and managed to trap it against my fingertips, pulled it in to my chest and cradled it like a child, holding it to my heart and letting it warm me as I was reassured of its safety.

When I looked down my star was gone, but there was a warmth still  in my chest, one I hadn’t  known before. When I looked up again, the stars winked.I winked back.

I went to sleep that night with dreams that could only be called celestial. They were of worlds I had never seen and of people I would never know.

When I woke the next day I tried to go about it like any other, but something had changed. The warmth in my heart was still there and somehow everything felt different. Coffee tasted different, the smell of the morning was sharper, and the dreams danced through my mind as vivid as when they were painted on the backs of my eyelids, when I had no other place to be but lost in their infinite expanse.

That was when I saw it in the corner. It was quiet, huddled, dejected. I had attempted to make it something so long ago, but now it looked back at me reproachfully. It asked me what it had done to deserve such neglect and I had no real answer for it.

I got down on my knees and approached slowly, outstretched arms low so as not to alarm the thing that I had made and discarded with so little thought. I heard a hiss and it recoiled, but I waited and tried again,over and over, until it let me touch its wild mane. Eventually l it granted me the pleasure of its company, but this time we were on on its terms.

We repeated this ritual every day, and I began to speak my dreams aloud to it. We repeated our ritual every day until it hummed and purred and danced along with the stories, until it started to become a part of them. With its added dance, the stories hummed and jumped and came to life in a way I never could have imagined,and as this life bled in to my dreams, my dreams bled in to life.

One day when I awoke the dreams had not faded.They were instead painted on my kitchen walls, heard in lovers words, felt in the rumble of the train car. I touched my chest, and felt the glow there, the little star that had waited, taken root and grown  in to me. I looked at my hands and the glow of the star shone just under the surface. When I spoke my dreams I could feel it glow and pulse beneath my skin. I felt it work itself through my hands and when I touched the dreams they stuck to my finger tips, wrapped around my arms and dripped in to my hair.I looked out my window and I barely recognized the world. I asked my friends if they could see it, see the colors, the whirling eddy of non-reality that had crafted itself on to my life. They smiled and humored me, but said the only difference was that I seemed to glow a bit, that there was something in my eyes. I went home and looked in the mirror. There was the spark, the star that snuck its way in to my eyelashes, and dripped its light in to my vision, and where simple brown orbs once looked out on my life, I now saw a spectrum of colors that I could only imagine when the world didn’t impose itself quite so staunchly on me. My dreams had slipped back, underneath my eyelids, the difference noticeable to noone but me, it seemed, like wearing tinted glasses while looking at a painting.

The night that I stole the stars, I changed my  world.


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