Nous

What do you want to be when you’re older? the world always asks, the world that does not understand how their veins turn like knobs, the world that doesn’t understand the clockwork of their insides. And then, they who did understand the mathematics of their philosophies, they answer stars, always stars. Big and bright and shining, balls of gas and energy, celestial, grand, and twinkling. The world that never got it would only nod, pretending to grasp their passions. Even the earth below would not swallow that lie. No one really understood them. That was the truth in which they were enveloped in: cold and solid, like an igloo.

What do you want to be when you’re older? the world spits. They say stars still, two years after the first time the world asked. Then, they look pleased. They still want the same thing. The world laughs bitterly, and it sounds like a gasoline leakage, and the screams after it. Funnily enough, the metaphor isn’t that far from the truth – gas leaks, and it covers everything. It paints the earth in fire.

What do you want to be when you’re older? the world asks. They say stars. And then, in their individual voices, screaming, like they haven’t said anything by themselves after years and years: talk show host, musician, writer, singer, businesswoman, architect, conductor, photographer, artist. It’s all simultaneous and urgent, like a secret they’ve never whispered before. They look at each other wounded and apologetic. The sun steals all their words and runs away before they can take them back. The moon introduces a play called Mockery, and it itself is the main character. The world sits back on its throne and smiles. Mars, the god of war, looks down and worries a little bit.

What do you want to be when you’re older? the world asks. They don’t answer anything anymore. No stars, no professions they only dream of. Walls sprout in the spaces between them, and silence lays curtains over their mouths. Echoes of past wars and visions of hell resonate in the world’s smile.

What do you want to be when you’re older? the world asks, taunting, expecting silence or a sword fight. One very small voice says a star, and it’s a feather from her throat. Another says a star, too, please, and it’s a coin hitting the bottom of a fountain. Star, another one says, all hoarse and cautious and ticking like a clock that has just hit the eleventh minute of the twenty-third hour. A small chorus of wishful noises glosses the ceiling, adds constellations to the solar system with scenes of things that have yet to happen. And then, in all certainty: stars. They look at each other with the little grins they used to wear. Stars. The world can’t say anything. Only stands back, eyes wide as Jupiter. Maybe even bigger.

What do you want to be when you’re older? the world demands, sharp as daggers. They answer stars, they answer lights above everyone. The world laughs, gurgling through a mouthful of petroleum and spite and a little bit of wounded pride and panic panic panic. You’ll burn out, the world says, all ugly and cruel and pleading. They who understood each other laugh, and say we can’t burn out, we haven’t started shining!