Every floating rock knows:
You might be a meteor someday.
If you’re not a comet—already spiraling, turning to ash, leaving a trail behind you—then you know:
You could be a meteor.
You float around, simply stuck in the void of space. Unable to stop your trajectory. Unable to change things. Unable to take control. You live your life knowing:
You’re just floating in space.
Just floating by.
Control? That’s so far out of sight, it’s not even an illusion. If you’re a rock floating in space, you don’t kid around. Don’t pretend with yourself. You throw all that useless, make-belief trash out the window because you know.
You have no control.
One day, something might catch you. One day, you might feel that tug, that pull. One day, you might not be floating. You feel the gravity of it, and you have no choice in the matter. You’re no longer floating.
You might be falling.
Crashing.
Burning.
And there’s nothing you can do about it, except to hope.
As you fall from the sky, begin turning into ash, begin building fire, don’t think about the end. Don’t close off your senses. Don’t be overwhelmed by the falling, by the fire. Don’t allow yourself to miss it.
Listen.
Do you hear it?
Do you hear the last sound?
Do you hear that hopeful plea?
Do you hear?
Have you made a wish? Continue reading “Wish Maker”
H. L. Sailer 