There’s something beautifully sad about fireworks and shooting stars. Maybe it’s how they light up the sky, even for just a moment. Unlike the moon and the stars, they don’t stay as long— most of us never even notice them, except for a few who chance upon them, or more of those who expectantly wait for them.
They are so wonderfully useless, pointless even, as far as logic and practicality goes. What tangible benefits do we get from both hunting shooting stars and oogling colorful fireworks? A momentary sense of joy? Candy for the eyes, I say. Catnip for our cat-culture-brainwashed minds, squeaky toy for the dog-loving-hypnocrazed crowd.
Still, we love them.
Maybe it is for that very reason— that very sense (or senselessness) of awe and longing, that our souls resonate with the tragedy of their brief existence. Of eternity encapsulated in triviality. It is something that the social laws of essentiality can never grasp nor accept.
I personally find it a waste of money to spend on pretty fireworks. But that hasn’t stopped me from gazing up the skies and smile at them, smile for the simple reason that they look grand, smile at how each boom makes my heart beat faster, smile at how I don’t know why I am smiling.
Some people consider it a waste of time waiting for shooting stars. But that hasn’t stopped them from feeling the excitement of seeing one, and with it sheepishly make a wish or two. Maybe they just keep silent about it, maybe they talk about it. Maybe they’ll just wake up at 2AM one of these days, and without realizing it, hope to see another one right there and then. Just because, shooting stars.
I don’t know why we bother celebrating the New Year— truthfully, it’s a countdown to our death, much like our birthdays. A trickle in the sands of time; cosmic clock gears continuously clicking, turning. Another year of both hope and dread, of both assurances and worries, and all the unpredictable and unexpected in between. And even all these don’t matter at all— they won’t matter when we’re gone, and they won’t matter as well across the infinity of the beyond.
But that’s how we all are: meaningless fireworks and meaningless shooting stars— skyworks that people gaze at and admire for a short while or simply ignore, an existence that may someday be remembered or quickly forgotten. We exist, we are: a silver scratch on the obsidian sky, an ephemeral splash of emotional colors on the canvass of the heavens. Who knows what the cavemen mean when they left behind their cave markings, and who knows what our lives will leave etched on others? Who knows what truly goes on in the mind of an artist, and who knows how people would react to the portrait of our stories?
There’s something sadly beautiful about fireworks and shooting stars. Maybe it’s how we wait for them in the dark. Unlike the sun and the clouds, they’re not as bright— most of us never even appreciate them, except for the few who let their thoughts wander, wonder if a firework’s thunder is a shout of joy, wonder if shooting stars make anguished cries as they blink out of sight— if only we could listen.
Maybe they all would sound just the same.
Maybe every year is just the same.
But still, we love them. Skyworks. Timeworks. Lifeworks.
Maybe just like why I love you.