The Infinite Starr

The heat had already settled over Texas before noon.

Not the kind of heat that asked permission.

The kind that wrapped itself around your shoulders, settled into your skin, and reminded you that July had arrived exactly when it intended to.

Fresh-cut grass drifted lazily through the afternoon air, mixing with the scent of warm cedar and old wood.

Somewhere nearby, sprinklers had finally gone silent.

The flower beds had already done their grand performance weeks ago. Bright colors had come and gone.

Only the lavender remained, standing patiently along the edge of the porch, refusing to beg for attention while somehow demanding it anyway.

Two cardinals landed on a low branch across the yard.

Neither made a sound.

Above them, a murder of ravens traced slow circles across the sky as if they had gathered for a meeting no one else had been invited to.

She smiled.

People always assumed ravens meant darkness.

Writers knew better.

Sometimes they simply meant there was a story nearby.

She adjusted herself in the old chair, balanced the journal across her knees, uncapped her favorite pen, and let it hover over the page.

Then she wrote.

Dear Diary,

They think this is about me.

Or about them.

Or about someone they believe they recognize.

They think every sentence is a confession disguised as fiction.

Every paragraph is evidence.

Every character is borrowed from real life.

Every villain has a face.

Every hero has a name.

Every ending is revenge.

They read searching for fingerprints instead of meaning.

They convince themselves they have solved some mystery I never intended to create.

“I know exactly who she’s talking about.”

“No, this one’s definitely about him.”

“She’s finally telling everyone what really happened.”

They speak with such confidence.

I almost admire it.

Almost.

Little do they know…

I’m not thinking about them at all.

Not while I’m writing.

They weren’t sitting beside me when the sentence arrived.

They weren’t whispering when the characters introduced themselves.

They weren’t standing behind me deciding how the ending should unfold.

They simply walked into the story after it was finished.

That part…

That part was their own doing.

I didn’t place them there.

They did.

Funny how quickly people volunteer themselves when guilt recognizes familiar furniture.

I never asked.

I simply wrote.

Somewhere along the way I made them feel something.

I made them uncomfortable.

I made them curious.

I made them question.

I made them wonder.

And because they felt something, they assumed it had to be about them.

Maybe that says more about the reader than it ever will about the writer.

They look at my paintings the very same way.

Every brushstroke measured.

Every line intentional.

Every shadow exactly where I wanted it.

Every color mixed until it felt right.

Nothing accidental.

Nothing rushed.

Yet someone always walks up to it searching for themselves inside the canvas.

“Who is this?”

“What does this symbolize?”

“Who’s the villain?”

“Who’s the woman?”

Sometimes…

It’s just blue because blue belonged there.

Sometimes…

The tree is simply a tree.

Sometimes…

The mirror is only reflecting light.

Artists understand that.

Everyone else wants a confession.

They think I’m mocking them.

They think I’m preaching.

They think I’m leaving breadcrumbs hoping someone clever enough will eventually discover the great hidden secret tucked between chapter three and paragraph seven.

They believe the answer exists because they need it to.

They cannot accept that imagination exists simply because it enjoys wandering.

My mind doesn’t stay in one place long enough to hold a grudge.

One morning it disappears into ancient civilizations.

That afternoon it wanders through secret societies.

The next day it studies religion.

Then psychology.

Quantum theory.

Alchemy.

Human behavior.

The strange reasons people lie.

The stranger reasons people tell the truth.

The way grief changes a face.

The weight of silence.

The architecture of memory.

The mathematics of forgiveness.

How could I possibly spend all day thinking about one person?

That sounds exhausting.

People believe if they climb high enough, they’ll eventually see exactly what I see.

As though perspective can be borrowed.

As though standing beside me somehow grants admission into my thoughts.

It doesn’t.

You may catch a glimpse.

For a heartbeat.

Maybe two.

But my imagination changes quicker than the second hand on a clock.

Before you’ve understood one thought…

I’ve already wandered into another.

They think Jack is someone I know.

Is he?

Does he remind you of someone?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

They think Alice is her real name.

It isn’t.

Or perhaps it is.

They think every old woman carries a message.

Every child represents innocence.

Every crow represents death.

Every raven means darkness.

Every mirror reflects guilt.

Every staircase means growth.

Every locked door hides trauma.

Sometimes they do.

Sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes a raven is simply enjoying the wind.

Sometimes Jack showed up because he introduced himself before anyone else.

Sometimes Alice refused to answer to any other name.

Characters are funny that way.

Writers don’t command them nearly as much as readers imagine.

We simply take dictation.

The truth?

Life is actually rather ordinary.

Wonderfully ordinary.

It wakes up every morning without asking my permission.

The sun rises.

Coffee gets poured.

The grass grows.

The birds argue.

The lavender waits.

The pages fill.

Then tomorrow arrives and does it all over again.

There is beauty in that.

A blessing in the repetition.

My life isn’t some dramatic mystery stitched together with betrayal and hidden enemies.

It is quieter than that.

Kinder than that.

It has become one blessing after another.

There is very little left to complain about.

Very little left to fight against.

Very little I would trade.

So why would I spend my days writing revenge?

I have far too much gratitude for that.

The imagination isn’t fueled by bitterness.

It is fueled by possibility.

I write because ordinary life leaves room for extraordinary questions.

I write because curiosity refuses to sleep.

I write because stories allow strangers to borrow emotions they’ve never experienced.

I write because someone out there may discover themselves inside a character I invented on a Tuesday afternoon while watching two cardinals ignore a murder of ravens overhead.

If they see themselves…

Good.

If they feel exposed…

Interesting.

If they become uncomfortable…

Ask yourself why.

Because I never invited anyone into these pages.

The door was open.

You walked in.

You unpacked your own suitcase.

You recognized your own reflection.

And somehow…

You decided I had been writing about you all along.

I closed the journal.

The cardinals were still perched quietly on the branch.

The ravens had drifted farther west, their circles dissolving into the blazing Texas sky.

The lavender finally caught the afternoon breeze, releasing its fragrance as though it had waited all day for exactly this moment.

I smiled to myself.

Tomorrow someone would read these pages.

Someone would swear they knew exactly who this story was about.

And once again…

They would completely miss the writer holding the pen.