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When I find myself out late at night, I often divert a few blocks from my destination to walk through the silent streets of San Francisco. I look up at the abyss and drink in the light from the stars shining at me, bid a hello and good evening to the moon.
There’s comfort in knowing that they’re always up there watching me, my guardian flock casting protection and natural light to illuminate my path. Orion’s belt may be obscured in the clouds, Jupiter dimmed by the fog of city light pollution. But my bones feel them all there, steadfast and ominous above.
I’m always searching for the North Star, even when I know it’s a bad night to look for it; like when I’m too far deep in the urban jungle or I can’t even find the big dipper. I squint my eyes at every light force nestled in the black blob, sizing up all of them against the other in the name of finding The Star.
Why I look for it, I don’t know, especially when we have digitalized compasses and 3D-rendered maps on our phones. I could open an app that scans the sky for me, pointing out which star is what and where I could find it. I used it once in Hawai’i, at a far east point on O’ahu that had little to no light pollution. My screen filled up with all the constellations, even the ones I couldn’t see in real life. It felt like cheating somehow.
Maybe I look for the North Star because I believe it will lead me somewhere, to the Garden of Eden or the love of my life. Maybe I yearn for it to take me to where I’m supposed to be.