Shooting stars are not stars at all.

They’re just rocks that enter our atmosphere and burn up because of friction

Because they flew too far, reached up too high

Because they were under too much pressure.

Because they gave up.

And because in the end, their destinies were to blow into pieces to entertain our hungry eyes.

Shooting stars are not stars at all.

What we wish upon, as spirited, trusting children

Are trails of debris, left from an unfortunate meteorite

That went the wrong way.

That decided to stray off the path

That decided to part from its brothers and sisters.

Decided to be brave

And die;

Because bravery does not come without a price.

Shooting stars are not stars at all.

In some myths, they are a war of angels and devils;

Stones of fury playing outrage between their battlefields.

In others, they are gods writing our stories for us in the heavens.

In science, they’re just rocks.

Shooting rocks.

When I used to wish upon a star, I used to wish with all my heart.

Squeeze my eyes shut until I was sure my wish was imprinted into the fiery residue of the star,

Being sent on its way to God, like a wish list to Santa on Christmas.

But little did I know,

That shooting stars are not stars at all.