The thing I miss most about home is the stars.
People forget, in the cities. Life is so busy, so fast.
We forget to stop, to glance above, and even when we do, the world is hidden by a smog of industry, vaporous glimmers of our own making, so much lesser than the ones above.
I have been into the dark county, I have looked up and seen the lights above me, bright for the first time in so long. I have held my breath, struck by their beauty, but then filled with disappointment at the empty spaces, the aberration of their patterns.
This is a strange sky above me, and it only reminds me how far away I am from home.
Lying on the grass looking up at them fills me with a loneliness these people around me cannot fill. Nothing is familiar, in this strange world of mine.
There is no sense of belonging stronger than when I lay on that other dirt, and everything felt right.
I was home.
These are not my stars, I am alone.
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