Dear bolide,
(n.) An exceptionally bright meteor.
I watch you shoot across the sky. But alas, as all good things, there’s a clandestine truth cloaked behind it. “Shooting stars” are not stars. When one wishes upon a shooting star, they are truly wishing upon a meteor that permeated our Earth’s atmosphere. Its vain attempt to penetrate our surface is extinguished as the pitiful rock burns before it hits the ground.
However, there is an unforeseen beauty in it. When the meteor is making its fatal descent, it heats up and begins to glow; thus the misconception of a shooting star. Perhaps that is what I find so fascinating.
Conversely, one could argue that the meteor is glorious. As an interstellar navigator exploring the furthest reaches of the universe collecting mineral memories of its travels, only to become an extravagant sight for the dwellers of earth upon which to pin their hopes and dreams. In its prismatic death, it has become, like a phoenix, a symbol of hope and future.
Nevertheless, I wish upon you anyway.
I wish for the childlike innocence of believing that my wishes upon you would become true. I wish that my wishes someday won’t all be of escaping this nightmare. I wish I could love to live. I wish I didn’t yearn for death. But most of all, I wish to relive the past without the fear of the future.
Sincerely,
Tangerine Boy
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