STELLAR

The thinning light is silent. Streams of the golden sun filtered by the leaves were starting to be fewer. Outside the window, those same leaves rustle, and yet the sea winds aren't as cool as they once were. Shadows from them loom inside the room, hands above the armrests, each taking a seat. Swaying until I complete a story before my stage exit.

The world is filled with mysteries, stories untold, and even facts that any of us couldn't fully grasp. An example is a staggering difference between species of a related line. Whales never looked like hippos even if my past teachers had been pushing that idea to us. One can also ask where is the transition between microscopic atoms up to the solid crystals. Where does the shift from distant individual atoms to a fully impenetrable solid occur? How does the same form liquid, an unimaginable form of matter that blends, adapts, flows, changes yet consistent, volatile yet ubiquitous?

The same way our thoughts were created. Where are they stored and why are these vivid and perennial creations only has neural connections as representation? Where does the transition from a seemingly different world to ours occur?

Another mystery is how all of us greeted the living world from the water. We swam in the wombs of our mother and yet the moment it breaks, we became inefficient swimmers without the tether. There is like a switch wherein once consciousness is established, we suddenly lose our innate capabilities to tread. Or we became incapable because we unlocked fear, worry, and distrust. When does the brain decide to flood us with those? And we do celebrate that moment of our birth. It's funny how we gain just to lose the innocence and purity we were bestowed with. Don't get me started with the outside world. The mysteries are way beyond what my imaginative mind could solve. How does love start? Was it just hormones or the urge to procreate?

The greatest puzzle yet to be solved is the phenomena of death — or life. At what point in time does the clump of cells in the womb become something living and when does that same essence leave the body for us to be pronounced dead? When can you fully say a body is dead? Is there a soul incepted in all of us that leaves when the body, as a vessel, cannot anymore host such immaterial being(s)? Was it all in the mind? Are we souls with bodies or bodies with souls? If it is the former then there could be a chance to meet someone dear anew that long had been traveling in abstraction.

Such conundrums drive us to gain knowledge as we grow, and some of us even pursued them to academic heights just to fully understand them scientifically. Science, to me, explains the world but it never bridges the mysteries with reality. There's always this certain gap. That is where fiction comes in.

Fiction is the world I found myself loving. It is when the sun's dim and the crickets chirp that the portal to it is summoned. Everyone has control over it. Characters of the human race, ghosts, or probably the elven tribe, or a pocket dimension of an alien realm, even as small as a family of a bacterium can be summoned. It just depends on how things are going. Sometimes the same can be conjured from days to months as long as its story requires it to be.

These universes can materialize and the real world shall be connected with it through the stage. You can say there are a lot of media that you can use to convey the messages, but the theater is the most alive.

Deities of the human world can share their powers to their incarnate, may it be limited to the dimension the actors are playing in. You can make the audiences believe that the world they are seeing through their eyes is underwater even without a single drop of the salty sea. Monsters will have a humanoid face and vestigial structures and immovable limbs made of cotton, or probably plush depending on the budget. The stage will have a piece of music circulating the entire halls that you wished you hear when you're happy as a character of this real world. The razzle-dazzle of the stage, although dimmable, is unparalleled.

Imagination is the limit. Seeing your works up on stage is sublime. Even if I can't make them materialize, as long as those stories are within my head, there will inevitably come a time that they'll not wait in their queue and will arise from the portal.

And you'll love the experience. I'd say you loved it for the moment you become settled, Stella, you had been a part of the theater, so much so that the theater becomes a part of you.

"Everything I wanted to be. With theater, I can be whatever and whoever I want. I can be a hero, I can be a ghost, I can be a tiger, I can be a host. I can be the president, or a shadow, or the evilest thing that humanity wants to destroy." said you. What can you become? What more do you desire to be? Your whispers then sough. Can I create a world like that?

Those were grand statements and your eyes cannot help but gleam with your utterance. The memory is still vivid and lives within my head. You were holding a script for an audition in the city, and it is apparent that you'll be chosen just based on how the crew and the director tend to you.

I've been having a skirmish with the inanimate tools up on my desk. The stapler seemed to be putting a fight into not letting it regurgitate the metal I let it ate. Come to think of it, I'm technically asking for it to spit its entrails out. The score papers within the folders also screamed of the bloodshed that happened to it. My ballpoint pens also seem to have the power to slip from my hands the moment I caught them. I need to be fast or else Cypress will scream at me for being late. I collected them and the good thing is, my supplies are quieter when they're trapped in my bag, and so I can look back outside the window and hear the sounds of nature clearly.

The last laggard in the room had finally finished fixing his items. With a wave of goodbye, I become the last one in the room. Lights off, seats are properly arranged, no trashes on the floor, and I'm finally good to go.

It's past six when I arrived at our front yard. The newspaper delivered by the newspaperman had been lying on the floor whole this time. I guess that's a consequence of being up early for work, you'll get a repugnant piece of paper. Every day. Thank Go,d they did their duty of folding this nonsense so I can send this to a pile without even reading it. I don't want to ruin this special day of our dearest daughter.

"Cypress are you there?" I shouted as my shoes tapped the indoor floor.

I peered at the kitchen and I wouldn't expect her to hide in such a dark and obvious place. The chime from my entrance was still ringing and not being suppressed by her usual loud noise. I just went upstairs and came into my room first. Unburdened my shoulders with all of my materials and belongings, and letting my inner shirt breathe without the overcoat.

Excited, I still controlled the force of my knocking onto my dear's room. Slowly the door clicked open and what I saw was an angel in her most serene sleep. Our dear might have been tired of waiting for me but I know she'll love the new doll I bought for her. I might witness another opening of her treasure chest if she approved of its quality.

"I have something for you, too bad you're asleep." I sat next to her, closed my eyes, and kissed her on the forehead. You don't know how much I wish you were still with us. Even if it's inconvenient, I want to have that competition of how many kisses can we make for our dear.

The moment I opened my eyes I was greeted with a huge smile. I couldn't even fully react and now her hands are wrapped around my neck! "I want to see it, Dad."

I know couldn't escape and so I laughed with her to be released. "I have a story you'll love. You've been asking me about how you wanted to hear a story of mine right? Well, here it is. Are you ready to listen? Be sure to find Stella within the story."

"Yes, Dad."

"Here it goes." I coughed. "Once upon a time, there was a land tormented by perennial rains. It suffers a sky so dark and gloomy, with thick gray clouds and soughing misty winds. The heavens continued to cry and release bolts of lightning and rumbling thunder as if it was in pain. It is cold, cold as the time when the first snow of the winter falls. Rivers form torrent, and the breadth of the plain is covered by a thin of an almost permanent layer of water. If it weren't for those rivers that lead to the sea, the place would've been drowned completely. It is almost barren and lifeless, except for a lone tree beside a flat-topped chunk of rock that resides at the heart of the plain. It withstood the outpour, it conquered the strong winds, and it didn't let the waters drown it and kill it. Never did someone live here due to the prevailing condition, and never did anyone thought that someone can seek refuge and call the place home.

"There was this girl. She ran relentlessly, not worried by the strong gusts and heavy rains. She didn't mind not seeing the sun for everything that the rays of light reached cast her away. The cold never did bother her for she was endowed with a gift — the heart of the fire. Everything she touches burns and everything her hands hold turns into ashes. She never wanted this gift — she despises it.

"She was part of a poor family and only had themselves for each other. Her dad died when she was conceived and, at the age of seven, her dying mother glowed bright red the moment she gave her warmest hug. It might have been during that time when her powers got awakened. Flames rise where her feet set upon. She was startled. She held onto a table and from there, fire engulfed their home. It has been glued to her, the bittersweet smile of her mother before turning into dust. A heavy storm enveloped her heart. She couldn't cry a tear for it evaporates as the droplets touch her skin. She still remembers how her mother slowly faded and blown along with the wind.

"The girl walked towards the tree in seek of solace. Her back is crouched, her arms laid down, and her feet being dragged on the mud. She just let herself fall and lay on the surface under the shade of the tree. That was the first time the land had breathed. The layer of water where she lies turns into mist. She stretched her body and extended her arms away. Panic struck as her hands touched the only tree in the deserted land, afraid of turning it into ashes. Burn scars form on its bark but slowly healed. She witnessed the green glow that arose as the tree repairs itself. It was truly a sight to see. Amazement showed as her eyes glimmer. She hugged the tree once more, and more, and more. The tree proved to be resilient from her touch, that may be the reason it had lasted for quite long. She became happy. The flat-topped rock became her stage and the rain became her cheering audience. She danced, and swirled, and tapped, and swayed. Her whole body then shined just like the stars in the heavens, not noticing the fiery glow that emerges from within her. She burned warm, not hot, but warm. There then came peace in her heart.

"She hopped off the pedestal and dance her way throughout the vastness. Plants grow where her feet land, flowers then bloom as she trudged off the mud. The outpour turned into a drizzle, then stopped. The rivers calmed and revealed their clear waters. The clouds opened up to welcome the glory of the sun. She kept dancing until her eyes became fixed onto the tree. Buds grow from the tips of the branches, and from there blossomed one of prettiest flowers that she had ever seen. They are golden, tiny, and delicate. The flowers cluster as they form garlands that beautifully rest and hang. She then notices the turf of flowering grasses, the beauty of the plains, and her fiery glow. Joy rushes in her blood as she looked all over. It's different this time, her touch brings warmth and life. It was truly a graceful performance. There's suddenly paradise." I closed my notebook lightly and sighed, "The end."

"That was good, Dad." said my daughter as she happily held her hands together.

I gently smiled as I watch her eyes sparkle, "You think so, Dear?"

"Definitely!" Her forehead wrinkled as she tilted her head, "So where was mommy there?"

"She's the lady with the gift of the heart of fire!"

"Wow!" she grinned widely with squinting eyes, "Mommy's great then! But I expected more. The story only has one character and I thought she was the tree, or probably the rock. It was so obvious that it became doubtful."

"Hmm… definitely!" we both shared a good laugh. I put my palms on her cheeks and kissed her on the forehead anew. "You are the tree. That's why I named you Cypress, the tree that stands tall on inundated soil. Plus, you gave us reason to dance and even enjoy the storms the world has to offer."

"But, does that tree flower like the tree in your story, Dad?"

"No, dear. You flourish on your own." I hugged her. "Happy birthday, dear."

"I want more, Dad!"

"You'll have more for tomorrow. It's already late."

"Ok! Read me more stories tomorrow, Dad. I'm also expecting Aunt Claire," she said as she immediately went under the cover.

It's so fun to see her grow. She can now do her blankets on her own. I remembered the days when she was so tiny and I can still hold her between my arms, caress her and kiss her on the cheeks! Now, the only thing I can do is lift her at her waist and do a piggyback ride. Those were the days, she became heavy. I fixed the blanket, and with a kiss and a gentle pat on her head, I bid good night. "Sleep well, dear"

You know, hon, I am thankful that she grew up so nicely. She turned out so beautiful, outside and inside. She's full of happiness, curiosity, perseverance, and naughtiness! You did your part in guiding us. A guardian angel perhaps? Definitely. It could've been a better day, or maybe the best for her if you're here. We both miss you. I long for you. I hope she'll have you in her dreams and greet her a happy happy birthday.

I gently walked towards our room. I still remember your smile when you'll rush ahead just to be the one to enter first. You even grip onto my hands tightly just to overpower me on this doorknob. Then, you'll stare at me and say, "I win!", even though I touched it first. Those sparkle in your eyes, the warmth of your touch, everything. It's as if you're still here — a living memory. I can still hear your mischievous laugh. A grin is the only thing I can do now as I hold onto this brass piece of metal.

The day has been long enough and I should rest. I lay flat on our bed, closed my eyes, but can't seem to sleep. If only I could control my dreams and have you there, maybe I can easily go to the dream world. I flipped the pillows, went on my back, lied down, but I really can't seem to get a hold of that sound sleep. I see the world you've created as I opened my eyes. Those tiny glow-in-the-dark stickers of stars and dancing people up on the ceiling shines amidst the darkness.

I sat back up. My head's a bit groggy as it's way past eleven, my eyes have been heavy and my body colder. I smiled as I saw our only family photo resting by the lampshade. No one was looking right at the camera when we took this photo. It was in the park on a sunny day. People stroll with their loved ones, balloons being held by the passersby, birds chirping — everyone was just happy. You were extending your arm trying to reach for the apple that slipped through your hands. Cypress was leaning firmly on your belly so she wouldn't fall! I was just lost in awe beside you.

Trying to wait for the blessing of Hypnos is a bit exhausting. Moods as somber as this, even if I'm tired through a day's work, just made me think of stories that will add to my unpublished novels. Books are written and stored only in my head. I guess I should just write to you and our daughter a birthday poem. I stood up from the bed and have myself seated at my writing table.

Here it goes:

The days have been so cold but your flame kept me warm

Just like this candle's fire that I hold with my arms

A gust of breath, it dwindled, then extinguished with my wish

I hoped the smoke scattered and reach you with its tiny bits