It Means Nothing

I breathe in the cold night air and gaze up at the stars above me. I cannot begin to describe to you the things I see; the beauty I see. Before me lies Orion’s Belt and next to it, Bellatrix, my star, hidden among the hundreds of other constellations and flaming balls of gas that I cannot begin to name.

But I begin to wonder. There must be someone out there on the very star I’m watching. On that perfectly pink-silver star, someone is standing there, hidden by their planet’s rays. There must be someone out there, thinking the very things I am thinking right now. And I know: I am not alone.

Yet this person is so unaware of my existence, to the thoughts coursing my brain, to the blood flowing through my veins as I take in the cold air.

Who’s to say that there isn’t someone out there watching us?

Who’s to say we’re alone?

Who’s to say we can’t change the way things are?

There are people out there who believe that you cannot. These people believe that errors cannot be correct and never forgiven. These people believe that anyone who is not born of pure blood is worthless. I should know: I am one of them.

One person cannot change the world. But he can certainly try. One person, one teenager, one lost soul can turn on a light for someone else. And if enough lights are turned on, things can be changed. It all starts with one.

And as I look at the stars, I think this.

I also begin to think about how we lead our lives. Falsely.

Are you the person you want to be?

I certainly am not.

I look down at my expensive robes. The Hogwarts supply list clearly states to buy “plain black robes”, but I don’t care. These are much better. They’re in style, and everyone else is wearing them.

But that’s just it.

Everyone else is wearing them.

If no one wore them, would I?

No, I wouldn’t.

I look at my reflection and feel my face. It is smooth, blemishes hiding behind layers of magic, all because it looks beautiful and attracts the boys.

But, again, that’s it.

It looks beautiful.

Not because my skin is naturally perfect. Well, I certainly do wish it was, but the question is, would I be hiding my skin behind magic if people liked me without it?

No, I would not.

This is my façade. I hide my true self behind my clothes and my way of speech. I don’t even know who I am at this point. How, and when, will I find myself?

I take off my black eyeliner. I am beautiful without it.

I look to the stars, neck back, eyes raised to the never-ending sky. To the never-ending story waiting to be told. Waiting to be discovered.

Does it matter who we are today, when we might just be poor and dying tomorrow?

Does it matter if we’re popular, if you might be homeless and alone next week?

Does it matter if we look good, or that our skin is a certain color, if we can’t feed our own selves in the next month?

As I look at that one pink-silver star again, I realize the answer is “no.” When I look at the stars, all else fades away into nothingness.

It does not matter what shoes I’m wearing, or how much I paid for them.

It does not matter who my boyfriend is, or what I did to get him.

It does not matter whether I’m fat or bone-thin, or how I’m treated for it.

All that matters is that one star in front of me.

An object collides with my ribcage, and I groan, turning over, opening my eyes and shaking sleep away.

“Wake up!” Narcissa, my annoying little sister, yells at me.

I don’t bother asking why: Trust Narcissa Black to set me up with some random boy, just so I could accompany her on her own dates.

She hurries out the room so that I can change, and I get out of bed.

Pulling my robes over myself, I walk to the bathroom, where I apply my heavy black eyeliner and cover-up.

I stare at my reflection in the large mirror and I see a tall, black-haired woman. She looks at me curiously, and I see the artificial beauty supplied by her make-up. I see her expensive robes.

It is me.

As I look away, a pink-silver glint catches my eye. It emanates from a pair of earrings lying on a roommates’ bedside table.

And then I remember. It’s something vague, but it’s there.

I remember seeing a pink-silver glint somewhere, and snippets of information and wisdom come to me, yet they are cloudy and out of reach.

Recognizing it as last night’s dream, I shake it away. It means nothing to me.

With one last look into the mirror, I leave the bathroom and head out the dormitory door after my sister.