Six word story: Constellations

The constellations scream for your attention,

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How many do I need to smoke to burn…?

Chain-smoking.

A new hobby, a habit.

How many do I need to smoke to burn my lungs?

How black are my lungs now?

Are they black as my soul?

Stained by all of the sins I’ve done and will do?

How will I describe them if I ever dissect myself?

Black as charcoal?

Black as midnight with a few popping stars that faintly shine, indicating some kind of existing hope?

How many do I need to smoke to destroy my lungs, so it can shut-down my heart?

Why do I need to indirectly damage my heart?

Why don’t I just get a knife and stab it already and get it over with?

Why all of this dramatic slow suicide?

Ah, yes.

Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten.

I don’t want them to directly look and know that the problem lies in my heart.

I don’t want them to find the name carved within that bloody muscle.

I don’t want them to blame you.

I don’t want them to find out about all this love that I am saving for you.

I don’t want them to find the painful sufferings and point their fingers at you.

I don’t want you to know that these are my true emotions towards you.

I don’t want my strong self to be crushed by this weakly that I am now.

I want the love I have in this beating muscle of mine to be hidden from prying eyes, including you.

I want to burn it along with my soul and leave no trace of it in this cruel world.

So tell me,

How many do I need to smoke to burn my existence from history?

“…looking at the stars always makes me dream.”

I confess I do not know why, but looking at the stars always makes me dream.” – Vincent Van Gogh.

I know why, Vincent.

The stars are faraway.

Shining in the distance.

Some shine brighter than others.

Some shine before others.

Some shine all through the night.

Some fade mid-way.

Some guide humans into the right path.

Overall, they all exist. Stars exist.

You can’t always see them,

but you eventually do.

You might lose sight off them when it’s too dark.

It might be too cold, too windy, too cloudy for you to look up and gaze at the illuminating sky.

it might be time for the sun to awaken and fulfil its duty.

But you eventually meet the stars,

even if they are miles away.

Dreams are like that.

I look at the stars and I dream too, Vincent.

Because dreams are like stars.

I’d like to think that no matter how much distance I have left to reach my dreams, they still exist, just like the stars.

Sometimes it becomes all blurry and dark and I lose motivation,

but the next day, week, or month I can still get up and fight.

I can still look up at my stars and dream.

I can still gaze into my bright existing future, Vincent.

This is why, Vincent.

This is my why.

Stars of the night

At night

Just before the stars aline

My tangible self

Transfers 

Into a spirit-like form.

It soars into the sky

Like Aladdin’s magic carpet

So swiftly and effortlessly

Blending with the wind 

Twirling around the street lights

Causing a flicker or two.

And once the first star shines

I sit on the front row 

Admiring the performance of the night

Where they appear 

One after the other

Like a script memorised so perfectly

Until they finish the show

With a last glow at the same time

And I find myself waking up

On a sofa near the window

To see the stars give out 

One…last…bow.