Headspace. in And The Rest.

Stardust swirls behind our eyes, the internal cosmos of the mind: a nebula of fireflies, they shift and drift and mesmerise, twirling corkscrew-curlicues in iridescent silvered hues: frosted purples, lunar blues; copper, carmine and chartreuse. Auroral neural meteor showers, unfurling flares of firework-flowers: the prismatic-acrobatics of rainbow cascades, in petroleum spectrums of breathtaking shades.

Hypnotic, quixotic, kaleidoscopic: the dancing stars are effervescent, bathed in moonlight; phosphorescent; opaline and incandescent… still nothing astral is everpresent: ephemeral yet memorable, these pinprick jewels are evanescent. A constellation of contemplation, a starlight-pathway symphony, a latticework in filigree, a mirage of cartography: the illusion of a galaxy.

And a dumb daydream-weaver- a foolish believer- could prance pirouettes endlessly through the ether, imagining embers of stardust beneath her; a stepping-stone safety of coddled conceit, as she skips astral spirals on flyaway feet, convinced that the cosmos can keep her complete.

That relief of belief is for pixie-dust girls, whose sweet fairy feet neatly waltz starlit swirls: reality is gravity, the earthly force of clarity… and who are you to dream so wide, you hollow consolation prize: dressing up in the dregs of your slash-tattered pride, while you’re drowning in space behind smash-shattered eyes. Your fractured jack-o-lantern mask cracked open in a Chelsea smile- a studied portrait of denial- choking worthless, mirthless laughter on a helix-highway to disaster; a self-destructive nihilist, squeezed into the skin of a realist.

You stared into the solar system, a lacework of coronas glistened- the white-gold heat of cosmic frisson- captivated by the vision; too far gone to really listen. Too starstruck by the luminescence, to chart the stars and learn your lessons: distracted by a supernova, you let a bolide bowl you over.

Short-lived in the limelight, a starburst may shine bright (majestic but finite): ostentatious, baseless, specious- a momentary myth of hallucination, a stupid spectral speculation: that you could be special, celestial… you were born to stay earthbound: terrestrial.

Re-entering the atmosphere, shooting stars burn out and disappear; an immolation by cremation, the mirage of astral correlation; the shrapnel of a constellation: a pyrotechnic conflagration, fading to disintegration, a light-show of illuminations… all that combusts, reduced to dust, the starless vacuum of mistrust.

Whatever you pretend to be, you’re a valueless nonentity, a potpourri of space debris: behind your eyes are asteroids, cascading back to earth, destroyed (charred-shard proof of the truth that you already knew)… you were never a starscape: you’re only a void.