We’re Like A Supernova On The Verge Of Explosion

Charlie Hang

I hear it, too. That music in the air that only reaches the ears of those with eclipses for hearts and combustible blood. We’re all sun and all moon, and all civil war of self. And we’re oh so tired of fighting, of holding up the shield each time we look in the mirror.

I know you stay awake past 2 AM thinking that you’re not meant to be so nostalgic so young, so melancholic so young. I know you curse the empty sky for feeling so lost for so long with soles so worn from wandering around for a place that feels like home. Some nights we can’t sleep listening to that music in the air, to the tick tock of all the clocks of all the houses we left behind, to the tick tock of all the clocks of that home we’re so eager to find.

So we build temples out of our nights. We make altars out of all the things we can’t forget and out of all the things we crave. We make sacrifices out of our beauty and out of our pain, but at least it gives us reasons for all the burning and all the bleeding. No one’s ever told you this, and like you I’m still learning it – it’s okay to cannot help but feel all of it.

Unbirth the idea that life is easier finding refuge in becoming numb, that it’s easier to keep a double bolted door at the entrance of your heart, that there is shame in sadness, shame in love, shame in desire and shame in all that the unbrave would dare say makes you vulnerable.

We’re like the city after dark – chill in the air, the street light bouncing off the wet pavement, rush of heat and vodka in our veins – driven by ferocious hunger.

Pluck an eyelash or two, dig your pockets to throw loose change into a fountain, hold your breath driving over a bridge, and when you can’t sleep go outside and pick the most luminous of ill-fated stars from the sky; all your wishes still count.

We can’t stop time and we will never be as young and as tortured as this. We will never be as in love. We will never be as heartbroken. We will never be as beautiful. We will never be as painful. Don’t call this catastrophe. Call it poetic and unlearn your tragedy. Embrace your sun, embrace your moon. Have you ever looked straight into the face of an eclipse? Have your eyes ever known anything more sublime?

These things you feel come like thunder, come like hurricane, come like arson, and the fields they leave in their wake are not ruins, they are sacred ground. Caress your bruises, kiss your scars goodnight, make love to all that you carry that is heavy, tangle yourself up limb to limb with hope. You are the opposite of weak, the opposite of shame. You’re all human and all grace.

Dear Supernova, explode, make it beautiful. Make it worth something. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Houston-based writer and artist.

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