it's funny, that quote from Oscar Wilde
you know the one,
"We're all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
some people are looking at the stars,
some are just sitting in the gutter,
and maybe some are already there in the sky.
but i'm not doing any of those things.
i'm sitting here,
in my dry corner of the gutter,
writing about the stars.
they come in droves,
little sparkling white pinpricks in the sky,
the blue sheet spread across the heavens
and spattered with galaxies twining into the fabric,
milky ways like someone tipped two types of concealer over,
staining our perfect eternity
and stars as though a little kid with a paintbrush
splatter-painted white little nightlights
over this blue sheet
stretched across our reality
because our perception
acts as though these stars won't burn out some day
even though they might already have,
and we're looking at some long-dead light
from a pinprick on the night sky
and everybody else claws at the walls
and i sigh and drown myself in words.
maybe it's the best way to get out of the gutter.
not to the stars but to something similar.