This Sunday I spend the evening in the company of . A person in whose company I for some reason adapt myself to the most comfortable state of misanthropy. When discussing with him, I take the stand that humanity is the scum of the earth, that the purpose of life is suffering and that misery is the foundation of all happiness, art and invention. It is an odd occurence – without lying in my statements I cannot say that I fully believe my own words – yet, I feel the strange need to maintain them.
While misanthrophy most often takes part of our discussions this Sunday evening was primarily defined by watching the Ballet: The Nutcracker at the Opera. Followed by discussing the pleasure in watching beautiful people moving in the most extraordinary way. It is amazing how these dancers manage to make the most complicated look so simple. As I sat there I could easily see how people in all of history has fallen in love with their prima ballerina, opera singer or, as of late, popstar, and I too allowed myself a moment of adoration for the male star of the show.
On my way home I noticed the clarity of the sky above and as a different kind of star flashed before my eyes I was reminded of the past week’s meteor shower. I got of my bike and to the few passersbyers I simply stood there like a lone madman in the cold, looking towards Orion out into the wast space above.
It was truly an exquisite night. Just cold enough to provide that crystal clear sky that even though I was in the middle of a large city offered a view of more stars than what usually is expected. As the stars flashed by, and my feet got increasingly more numb, I desperately tried to think of what to wish for. With the exception of a city-wide power failure I could think of nothing. Something I am not sure what to make of.
I stood there until the coldness spreading from the soles of my feet became more of a burden than I could bare, simply amazed at how unbelievably wast space is and how utterly tiny I am. As I headed back home I was filled with the melancholic feeling that leaving means I will miss so much of this unusual beauty. The idea that this extraordinarily beautiful night will not be repeated anytime soon and that I should not take it for granted weighted on my shoulders as I headed home towards a hot shower, a warm bed and a good book.

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