maisie [d3; fin]

If I could control one thing in the universe, I would control the stars.

If I could control the stars, I would make sure they only shined on Tuesdays.

To believe that this was based on a whim, on a personal dislike of any other day of the week, on any basis of bias would be a reasonable accusation, but it would not be a fair one. Indeed, I have seen my bones strengthened with stardust and my spine straightened by the night sky, but I am a mind wired in logic. The thoughts of my mind are all tied together, hemispheres shining through like celestial patterns; neurons connected one to the next like constellations.

My body is a galaxy of its own and I long to let my own light illuminate the night sky on every day other than Tuesday.

On Tuesdays, I would let the stars take center stage all night long, never giving the sun even a moment to break the horizon and take credit for the glory— no, the forgotten will have their day and when they do, it will be incredible.

One day, maybe a Tuesday, I will not be remembered as a girl who had nothing of importance to say. One day, the thoughts the float through the empty void of my mind will once again enter the atmosphere of consciousness, and I will be able to anchor their origins to something more than my simple word.

But until I am more than this body can offer, I will continue to believe that the stars are controlled by my fingertips and the universe by my breath— but only on Tuesdays, mind you.

I said this theory was rooted in logic, that my process of thought was rooted in something more than the thoughts claimed explanation and fabricated from the tip of my tongue, and for my own sake of reputation I am going to expand upon the foundational thoughts and, if nothing else, remind myself of the significance placed on Tuesdays by simple process of eliminations.

I would not choose Sundays, for these are the days that reek of new beginnings. The stench of unbroken seals and factory fumes would suffocate the stars that dared to shine. No, I would not allow them to sacrifice themselves to the beta stage of all things bright and new. Change is man’s way of making excuses for bringing harm to others and I will not place those in my care in the line of fire. They are not ammunition; this world is not a gun. The inevitability of the trigger being pulled will not signal the beginning of anything in this life I will lead.

But then again, maybe it’s the one doing the shooting that I should be afraid of, for what’s a gun unloaded; a trigger not pulled?

Sundays set aside, I would not choose Mondays, either. Mondays are the symbolic symbol of weekly depression. They remind of us of obligations, of living this life simply because we have to, not because there is any rhyme, reason, or desire still in mind. Purpose is a powerful player in this game we have all inevitably signed ourselves over to, and it seems that this very factor of existence is laced with regret. Traces of drugged disappointment lingering in a thinning bloodstream— my mother said that if you cut yourself on anything, you had better pray it was not a Monday, for you would bleed to death before anyone could manage to rush to your assistance.

If I was a woman who placed prestige in bets, I would rise to power by one single chance of risk and loss. I would place everything I owned on the truth of the fact that the most people had killed themselves on Mondays.

Tuesdays passed and memories made, I’d go back to leaving the sky blank the moment that midnight passed to Wednesday. If anyone was to question my choice I would believe them to question the option here, for Wednesdays are often celebrated as the turning point of seven days to pass. But the turning point of the war is not necessarily the call of victory, and confidence is a killer of a conniving mind. No, to grip the rope in the place where it has been retied is simply asking to be burned of your own accord. When the fray has given up the ghost and split you are left with two broken pieces that do not fold when asked to link arms and simply remember times passed.

Broken pieces can be placed back together by way of the right hand, but even the greatest artisan cannot remove the scar that lingers behind as evidence of past crimes and conditions.

I would skim over Thursdays if I was forced to consider them as well, for they are nothing more than the prelude to the great piece, and to place my power in them would simply be a waste. The climax of the action is not preceded by an event of the same caliber, for it takes away the very essence of what it is supposed to be. No, Thursdays are days for preparations, for last calls and chances and for desperation disguised as initiative. They are for reflection and remembrance, and this does not translate to a star-speckled sky. When deep thought indeed entrenches itself in my mind and refuses to give itself over to kinder thoughts, I cannot even bear to consider the weight of a night sky that is anything other than pitch black.

But what is a buildup without a device of plot to which all could long at last be given?

Fridays considered, they would most likely lie as my second choice to contain the stars if I was to rank the days in order of honor quantified. However, this is the time the week draws to its close, the time when darkness begins to announce its second coming like a savior who could actually be seen. I am no god but human, and who am I to bring new light to the dimming dusk— how would I dare to interfere with the scenery already set on stage?

This was never fear and never was I afraid, for my very existence hinged on the dark to play the part of catalyst to the only greatness I was yet to claim.

Ultimatum brought to its pinnacle I would let Saturdays pass. The end of all things was here at last, and no one would be left to see it. I pity the man who claims greatness now, for time is running short and if the world is to end in darkness itself, then the same shall I. My light will stay illuminated inside my chest, it will be seen through the cracks in my bones by my heart alone and never through my skin will it show. No, if the world is to end in darkness, then so shall I in spirit.