Stars and Constellations

I laid out looking at the stars last weekend. It seemed like there was something new to see every time I looked at them. I could not begin to remember them all. How would I know if every time I looked at the sky, each star were in a different place?

The stars, they were never so bright, as that night. Our eyes gave depth to each part of the milky way. Every star, a soul. Every one I know, the brightest. My life in shining beacons. Around the north they turn, like my life, always turning. But where is the north? To what does it point, and what is it to each beacon? And which star am I?

The north star is my guide. It shines brightly for me. But if I can not find my place in the world, how can I see it? Mars shines brightly as well, but it would not do me well to follow mars when I am lost in the woods.

The stars are many. Every shape is in them. Every story. Every history. One can not know them, and not know their tale. Without understanding, they can not be seen. To see without meaning, how would one know them? Different, every time I look, when they are but stars. But knowing them, I see my entire world when I look at them. Each of the brightest, a point of reference, person, place, or time. And those more dim, too, but subtly. Deeper I look and more I find. Each time I look, I see those whose stories I have lived. And what?

Eating fried chicken, asparagus, wild rice mix, and listening to The Moldy Peaches.