There is a disconnect between how things were meant to turn out and the way that they did. Of course, who knew she’d make it this far? She certainly didn’t. She is black to the core, in the most uninteresting way.
She doesn’t know what to make of the life that she didn’t ask for. She doesn’t know how to treat the people who only use her for decoration in their absurd itineraries. Not now, anyway.
The universe was taunting her, and she had given up trying to fight him. “Let him bend me until I break, let him laugh as he may” she resolved.
Everyone. Everything. All of it. None of it made sense. Everything is skewed, it seems. And she is lost. She is at a loss for inspiration, for love, for satisfaction, although there is nothing left to attain (realistically).
But what is reality, anyway? What is it made of? Who does it affect? Could she count herself in?
Because time was swiftly slipping away, and she was wasting it counting stars on the canvas of her own fantasies. She only wanted what she couldn’t have, a specific star. The one that was twisted, bent out of shape, all wrong for her–the one that was furthest away.
She wanted it badly, more than she had ever wanted anything, she wanted it before it went supernova and ceased to be what she fell in love with–although, she might still adore it in the form of stardust, out of sheer respect for what it was.