And when I go outside at night, for one last cigarette. And I sit down and light up. And I look up at the stars, looking down on me. And I hear a car on the road in the distance going... home? And I hear people laughing - at some party? And I hear rustling in the bushes at the back of our garden - a neighborhood cat on the hunt maybe? And I get up, put out my cigarette and go back inside. And I lock the backdoor. And I say goodnight to my son, sitting on the couch, the screen of his phone lighting up his face - "Night, dad." And I go upstairs and I lay down next to my love, already fast asleep. And I kiss her softly on the cheek. And I rest my head on the pillow. And I think: today wasn't that bad, after all.
“Not just beautiful, though–the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they’re watching me.”― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
Yeah, I know, another Murakami quote — live with it.
I have a thing with trees. And with the Moon and the stars. I guess it has something to do with me sometimes just not wanting to see what’s underneath me, holding me anchored; or not wanting see what’s around me, like seeing reflections and truths, you know? No, this is about me looking up, looking into what could be, maybe.
With trees, you can’t see what’s underground, and you can only guess at what they are reaching for, for evermore growing and branching out. The great ones have already been here since centuries. And although they have this strength and wisdom, it is a scary thought that if I wanted to, I can just put an ax to it and stop the time. And kill history and future in one go.
And then it’s about me looking up into the night. Looking up at the only things that emanate intense energy, shiver with silver life, out there, far away in the vast darkness.
Yes, I know there are lamps everywhere that pollute and fuck up up the night sky, but stay with me here. Imagine that you’re out in the woods. Nothing there but the wet leaves on the ground, the mist clinging onto the birch tree trunks, and the thick, damp dark, hiding behind. — Until you look up to the sky, shimmering with a million (and more, always more…) bright lights, piercing through those naked, barren branches.
The biggest one out there, on some nights, is of course the Moon. And the Moon is something different. Different from those tiny, shiny needle holes, punched into that pitch dark blanket. No, the moon I can almost see. There’s some detail, some character there. Just enough to feel its nearness. But not enough to throw a rope around it and to pull it in.
For me the Moon and stars stand for the quiet, for relaxing, for letting go of the stress of the sunlight. Leaving behind that gigantic brightness, setting everything on fire from morning till night.
Looking up — it is a getaway. It is going far away while staying put. It is relaxing up there, when down here everything is hectic. But up there is where the dreams and the stories are.
Let’s see what I can come up with next.