Starry Night Over the Rhône by Vincent Van Gogh

What we are made of

Tristran Thorn is a young, spirited hopeless romantic, and Neil Gaiman’s Stardust invites us to adopt that role alongside him. To win the heart of the girl who has his heart, Tristran undergoes a search for a fallen star. He promised he would leave his town, Wall, to look for the star and present it to his love upon his return.

His adventure to the world outside the confines of his town challenges his naiveté, but also compliments it, as his genuine drive would eventually bring him to the star. The star, however, turns out to take form of a human girl, one with shining eyes. As expected from a star.

Returning to Wall was the main journey of the story. Tristran and the star turned from strangers to apprehensive acquaintances to, well, less-apprehensive acquaintances. The pair encountered interesting bunches of characters, each one will make readers wonder their respective backstories. (But I’m mostly talking about myself here.) Where do they live, how did they get to where they are, where are they heading next…

Every one seem to be on their own journey, but because its their own and not ours, we can only wish them well on their way and continue on our respective paths. Truth is we can only understand our own journeys, and because of that, it’s easy for us to think ourselves as the center of the world, when in fact, we are most likely not.

He imagined he could see the very faces of the stars; pale, they were, and smiling gently, as if they had spent so much time above the world, watching the scrambling and the joy and the pain of the people below them, that they could not help being amused every time another little human believed itself the centre of its world, as each of us does.

But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising”, Ada Limón wrote in her poem, Dead Stars.

We may not be the core of the universe, but this notion implies that we all do have a part of the cosmic universe within us. In fact, we were once seeds of dead stars. It’s a comforting idea to sit with, thinking that we are all special in some small way.

Limón continued in her poem:

Look, we are not unspectacular things. We’ve come this far, survived this much. What would happen if we decided to survive more?



microscopicals by sara

tiny stories by a tiny 24-year-old writer • she/her/hers