The stars are ever present, omnipotent. Infallible. They laugh, and scream, and jeer from their spots looking down over the world. Their mocking laughter can be seen when they flicker and cackle. The stars are not friends, yet they aren't quite foes either. 

They are like acquaintances. People who know people. Yet not quite so. 

Stars are more like the people that are read about in books and only through books. 

Like Greek and Roman Gods and Goddesses. They remain steady, like statues overlooking the people below, yet finding humor in humanities failures. 

I used to follow a star, but the gods laughed as I tripped before the alter. From there, I found myself in a freefall of doubt and internal questions. 

Even now, I notice one specific god always around me, always watching. And even when I try to look away, his eyes find mine, and his mocking, belittling gaze keeps me rooted to the ground, bowing at his feet. 

Resisting the gods are hard, so I find myself pulled every which way as their silk-clad promises leave me filled with hope before they let me fall. Before they force me on my knees once more. 

It hurts more, knowing I used to be on the same level of the gods. But now I find myself tripping at the temple, falling, falling, falling until my back lays flat with the grass. 

And then I notice the laughing stars. 

The nostalgic scent of self-loathing is ever prominent in my room. The bittersweet moments of affection and love that led into solitude for days at a time. The memories of the child who lived here before I took over the room, ripping off the wallpaper and posters. 

Ripping off the remainders of a child who was killed. 

Murdered at four years old, he had perished under the unrelenting hand of a dream turned sour. 

Like milk left in a fridge for far too long, and forgotten on the very back of the shelf. The smell begins to slowly permeate the air, until opening the fridge noticeably smells horrendous. 

Only then will the owner actively look around for the source. And only then will the milk be thrown out. But for as long as I have remembered, I have pushed aside my sour dreams. 

Because maybe, just maybe, I might be able to fulfill them one way or another. 

But until then, the bedtime stories that were read to a four year old child within the walls of my new room, will become covered up by time. Their themes, and colors, and fancy plots will lay void and null under my rule. 

My body, like brittle crackers. I bend too far forward, and something snaps, leaving my ligaments as crumbs below me. The outer layers of my skin, no matter how thick, are easily burned. The layers peel away like an onion, leaving tears in its wake.  

More often than not, white walls greet my eyes and they give more genuine smiles than I've ever been used to seeing. The blankness of a genuine state of physical recovery leaves me still, yet once I escape the confines of bedrest, it is only a matter of time before I am relocated. 

Relocated to danger. Relocated to life. 

To live is to fight, at least that is what is taught on the battlefield. Yet I find myself living to stand still on a beach without the wind grasping my outfit and pulling, yanking, and attempting to snap off all the buttons one by one. The velcro slowly pulling apart, assaults my ears with a sound of harsh crackles. 

The sound of ripping leads me to know my seams are tearing and that the hands pulling me around have a stronger grip than normal. And yet my feet are still, falling further into the caress of the sand I am standing on. 

My legs fall further into the crushed sand as my clothes are battered and beaten by the wind as it licks my skin. 

No, my fight is as I stay still, not as I run to save another person. My fight is on the beach that baptized me after the death of a four year old dreamer. The child in me celebrates while the adult watches from afar. 

The teenager inside has been lost for longer than I can remember, he has probably sunk so far into the sand that not even a remaint of his soul is in the air. 

Like broken crackers, I expect my body to crumble at any moment. The joints grinding and aching, the skin stiff with layers being removed, the muscles screaming constantly for relief. 

And yet the crumbs are not counted until I am relocated once more to the white room that gives me more smiles than I know how to receive. 

My friends are the equivalent of a shiny new car. One that remains unused inside a garage. The concept of having them, it, reminds me that I am not alone anymore. Yet it seems too new. 

I don't want more mileage. I don't want to use my car until it breaks down, leaving me stranded in the middle of nowhere. 

And I find myself fearing that my friends will do the same. Leave me in solitude once more. 

Leaving me to my own demise, right in the same spot as I was merely months ago. Selfishness consumes me, and will continue to do so as preserving my new car, my new friendships, becomes the forefront of my mind.