We are so caught up in our own little galaxies, huge stellar objects, revolving in their unique ways, which shatter when they come too close. We never notice the ubiquitous presence of the stars, our little miracles. They say home is where the heart is, but then my home would be everywhere - the vast blue of the seas, its intensity drowning us even when we are away. The curves and the slopes of the mountains, which are dotted with green and white. The smell of the earth after the rain, or the brilliance of blooming flowers. The dusty old pages, which tell-tales of a long-lost time, or the golden sunshine falling criss-crossed through the leaves. The warm blanket of darkness, or the rainbow made by the tiny prism held in the child's hand. The heartbeats running along with the music, or the ink stains on the pages. The lustre of the blood shed for love, or the monotony of silence. The cries of war, the euphoria of victory. The lust of the forbidden, or the lightly intense banter. The small shy smile, or the wide grin of pure bliss. The beginning of the end, or the end of change. The warmth of the bonfire, or the affection of a mother. We try to save so much, but we often forget to live. There is darkness, but we never see the safety of nothingness. We never see beyond what we need to. Our needs have become our only wants. Crave for more. More joy, More peace, more love, more acceptance. They say that lust is cause of all suffering. But there is nothing wrong with hope. Close your eyes and see.