Stars, planets and satellites give off light and reflect it in the otherwise dark sky. I really miss the days when there was little light pollution from the cities, when the desert skies were filled with wonder, when the wide-open world of childhood possibilities seemed endless, and when a past year was, well, long ago. Somewhere there is an existence where one lives in a year what most don't live in a lifetime. Somewhere there is a place where we can breathe.
With feet firmly planted on the ground one can never fly. I think most adults lose such childhood dreams of flying along the way. Somewhere in the repetition of existing, we forget what it was like to breathe, to feel, to fly.
Breathing doesn't exist in the facade of repetition, nor in a lifestyle of automation where we trade ambition for convenience. To breathe one cannot hold on to what used to be forever, nor waddle in what is, for that matter. One has to exhale the old and inhale the new. The oxygen that gives us life, that which is our freedom cannot come from stale, stagnant air. It cannot be created through worship, but it can be attained through actionable belief.
It is true that even stars eventually burn out, that planets and satellites reflect their light as long as those stars shine, and that our feet seem grounded to a planet that orbits a star. But it is also true that we are capable of believing in something more, of becoming something more. But we must be willing to breathe.