The death of the Northern Star

First time I saw the northern star, the night was hot, the stones were circular, the movement of planets was constant, the brightness was spectacular.

First time I saw the northern star, its light was so bedazzling, that obfuscated the mind of this drunken southern sailor with a broken compass sailing the northern seas.

First time I saw the northern star, I made a wish. I wanted that bright light to be real, to be alive. To be mine. I made confessions to that star, I gave my skin and my time as an offering.

So I waited. And I hoped.

And it came just for a short time with a lotus scent and delightful laughter, bright as ever. It came to gather its offerings.

And, as fast as a shooting star, it passed.

Last time I saw the northern star, its light started fading under the tropical sun, and all I could see was its dying heart. It was a lonely heart, just as mine, but the pulse was ruled by other compass. And it hit me that the light that I once saw was, indeed, from the bright armor around it reflecting my own light.

Last time I saw the northern star, it was under the southern cross by the water. It had travelled far, just as birds do, in search of some warmth. And our fate was sealed under a cloud of bad omens which drew so beautifully in the sky the image of our disconnected hearts.

Last time I saw the northern star, I realized what I saw was the light of a million years coming my way, catching up in time and space and it wasn’t the same one as before. A sunset and a dead star that still shone. A shallow black hole in the making, right in front of my face.

So I paid my promise to the dying star, and that was it. I left, as broken-hearted and disoriented as I was when I first saw it.

But this time I didn’t want that light to be mine.

Because this time — this time my compass was not broken, and this time my heart just knew what that shining was.