Adoring the unparalleled beauty of the night-sky always had been Solus’ favorite thing to do after his restless day. The stunning contrast between the dark sky and the glittering stars; as if the prettiest woman had put on her the most aesthetic collection of jewellery.
Solus always had this undying love for the stars, because the way they shine in the night, dimming and brightening up, as if the light itself danced around them.
God must be a painter, the way He paints the night-sky.
“Stars make me happy, they show me the way in the dark, I feel like I can communicate to them on a different level, with every passing day, I feel like I can guess their movements, and their behavior.”
Without any doubt, Solus was in love with the stars. And like every lover out there, Solus made a very typical mistake; learning about them.
“They appear to be nice from the outside, but they are scorching like hell from the inside. I’m getting more and more excited. They are born out of dust. They spend their lives attracting things around them, but the Universe won’t let them do it. They die in more than one ways, and none of the ways of their ending sounds pleasant; just like love.”
God must be a physicist, the way He keeps the forces balanced.
Solus finally learned that the stars are not what they appear to be. Like most of the people, stars also are farther away than they appear to be. If you get close enough, you die. If they move close, their color changes. If they move away, their color changes.
“I trusted the stars, and I feel like they’ve betrayed me. I wish I never had learned this much about them, but my love for them drove my passion of understanding them. I have made a huge mistake. I have trusted the wrong. More than them, I now hate myself for being so foolish and blind. I could not see the reality.”
Sitting in the corner of his room now, Solus closed his eyes, imagining every phenomena he has ever observed, every person he has ever met; searching for someone, something that Solus could talk to.
It’s really hard to tell if the drop flowing over the cheeks is sweat, or a drop of tear, and it becomes harder when you’re not sure if you’re crying, or not. Solus also couldn’t tell the difference.
God must be a psychologist, the way He makes people torture their own minds.
“I’m wounded in all sorts of ways. It’s ironic that I can’t find a doctor for these wounds, and if I don’t find a solution soon enough, these wounds will get infected. If I don’t get rid of these wounds, the hurt parts will have to be amputated. I don’t want to become another heartless person. But if I don’t get rid of my heart, I’ll die. I’ll die every single day of my life.”
There was complete darkness in the room, filled with muffling, and screaming sounds. Solus’ brain seizures had gone worse, worse enough to harm him physically. His random movements shoveled tiny pecks of blood all over the white wall he was facing. A stunning contrast between the white wall, and the dark bloodstains; as if a murderer was feeling proud of his stained cloths after taking another life.
God must be a writer, the way He twists the plots of everyone’s stories.