Arnaz
It is very rare that we glimpse the sky and stars in their true form. When I did, small and
unknowing, I imagined many things about them.
I imagined that the stars were all connected, held together by lots of hanging silver strings.
The whole sky was like a vast cobweb with a slight sheen to it. I imagined that fairies and elves would dance on the strings and make them flicker, and that’s why the stars twinkled. I liked to think that stars sounded like wind chimes when they twinkled, but quieter.
And then, when I grew up and stopped believing in elves and fairies, I imagined that the night sky was a dense, dense forest, full of trees and shrubbery. And the stars were just lanterns or torches of explorers far enough away in this strange, nocturnal wood. As they passed through the overgrowth and greenery, their lights would vanish for a moment here and there, but then come back. Maybe, I thought, it was some code or sign, this flickering. Then, twinkling stars sounded like distant voices -- whispers about directions on midnight walks. I liked to think that right above me resided people from all sorts of exotic, far-off places, with stories of their adventures.
And now, the sky is all buildings -- mansions, cottages, castles. Their windows, the stars, emit
only the shadowy glow of candles, oil lamps, dim chandeliers or the nightlights of infants. It is a world of houses, each with their own stories, with the lights in some rooms switching off as children go to bed, some flooded in radiance for banquets or parties, some lit with the soft glint of candlelight which people read by.