Old Writing

I Walked beneath the stars every night. I was the only one, little and lonely beneath that massive bright ceiling. I thought I was holding up the whole thing, the infinite chandelier, from old South Point Road. My mother was far away, I imagined, hands clasped in prayer that the stars would not fall on me. Give him the strength to keep them high, she asked. They're the only thing he can't afford to break.

By day I thought of nothing, simply moving to the droning pulse of circuits inside me, like a machine. But by night I let the sleeping senses awake. The road was narrow and lively with high leaning trees and walls of vines. Light of the stars poured down and over the pavement, carving a channel of silver in a black land. Shadows on the roadside danced in the breezes, and shadows of shadows danced in my eyes.