Born on the 4th of July

It’s not the fireworks, necessarily, that are intriguing, we decided. It’s the silence in between each flash. The afterboom. The inhale as the tiny stars of gunpowder and sparkle slowly,  make their way to earth and fade. For a moment, there’s a quiet. Most people don’t think about it, we said. Instead, they look through their phones and try to photograph the impossible; why do you capture something that is only supposed to last thirty seconds at best?
Two days before, I finally saw a meteorite in your presence. It shot across the sky, a tiny voyager on its way towards its logical end. A firey mass that couldn’t handle the heat of the atmosphere, it sped sideways, golden and glorious, if only for a moment. Then we looked at Jupiter, here before, here long after we shall be, unending across our timelines and exquisite in its indeterminate tenure in this universe.
You don’t know how long you will be here either, or what will happen next, but we are contributing a new melody to the song of the stars. Each quaver, semiquaver and pause is captured on the five staves we walk (inside the lines because we don’t have a choice) but at least I know you and infinity can hear this music too.
Sometimes, silence is golden. The silence of a distant meteorite. The silence between the next festive explosion of light and smoke and excitement. And the silence that signifies there isn’t anything to do but be and experience the sunbeams, the rain and the warmth.

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