Ghosts

A sleep with the curtains wide, I look out at the midnight sky, the ashtray of light littered with stars, each one a paradox of nature. A star is something that seems so possibly unnaturally factitious as to be naturally only possibly fictitious- a ball of gas suspended billions of light years away, burning at billions of degrees, shedding its light for billions of years- come on now!? To make all this harder to accept, the light that we see has taken so long to reach us that all we have left of these supposed celestial orbs is a reflection of the past, the shadows of existence. And as this memory from millennia past burns brightly nightly, all I have left to reconcile the improbability of all of this is a few comforting crumbs of my creator-led faith, a faith that is daunted and dwarfed by the extravagant swaggering conviction of unbelief that the more athiestically persuaded of us possess.