If only there were a point. An anchor of stillness. Even a hint of a lasting sun within my ever-morphing universe of wildly whiffting dreams and uncertain gusts of desire. If only there were a gravitational pole standing in the middle of my cosmic sandstorms, giving me hold as my troubled feet dance around its gleaming core. It would dictate my every step and pull me in steady circles along its motherly curves, finally leading me home.
But I keep gravitating towards dying stars and long-lost moons. Pulling me into their promising orbits for a round or two, they scream from the drive of my heavy longing. They won’t withstand my piled-up baggage of weighty souvenirs. None of them ever did.
Eventually, their invisible strings have to give in to the tearing pressure of my restless mass. They snap, let go and release me back into the cold but welcoming arms of the endlessly unknown. With yet another ripped string dangling from my heart, I’m reminded of yet another harshly ripped rope of hope, seduced to yet another childish wish that one day, my long-awaited sun will entangle itself in my hairy atmosphere.
Yes, one day, the aimlessly drifting planet of mine will find its lasting solar system and, together, we spiral into the widening womb of infinity, birthing new forms of life.