A plane flies overhead. It’s night. The road is empty, quiet. You hear the plane; you look around. Cookie-cut houses, some with their lights on, and others turned off for the night. You’re standing in the middle of the street. Nothing racing across your mind, no urgency, no thrill, no thoughts, and no emotion.
You are empty.
So you look up to find some sort of meaning. You look to the stars. They’re faint this evening. You spot the Big Dipper, the North Star, Orion’s Belt. And you wait to get that feeling. That feeling of feeling ever so small, that feeling of mystery, awe, and overwhelming satisfaction. The strengthening of your faith, the restoration, your revival. There is feeling. You wait, and wait, and wait. But it never comes. Today, you tilt your head back down from a view you couldn’t get enough of before. To a high you craved when the little dots beamed at you.
They’re faint this evening.
You grow older. Your knees get weaker. Memories come and go, and “six-years-ago-you” becomes a stranger. Your mind and body aren’t on the same page; the mind charts it’s own course. Because it isn’t attached, just stuck. Your mind wanders, it is not of the body, just stuck inside one. You look at your arms, your legs, your little finger with that silver ring and one day it all looks foreign.
You are tired. A tired that sleep can’t cure. Your mind is depleted. Actually, it’s left. It’s gone for the season. So you stand in the middle of the street on a breezy, summer night with no thoughts to keep you company and no feelings to share. Just your blank stares at the lit and unlit windows, the quiet jets of the plane passing by, and nothing.
You are empty. You are alone. And tonight, even the stars are faint.