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Will fight you if you aren't kind to yourself.

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There is nothing else remotely interesting about me that I could write here.
No, that's literally it.

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Between a House, a Church, and an Angry Scouser in a Nissan Micra

January 13, 2021

Between my house, the Old Church- I can't recall its actual name- on Marlowe road, and the constantly gridlocked main road heading north towards the tunnel, is some grass. That's it, really. Nothing much. Approximately a base of seven feet and a length of a dozen  at best (coming to a rather sudden but not quite pointed enough halt to be triangular, because I think throwing an unexpected shape in there might have startled the construction worker, or whoever goes around building knee-high fences around extremely small areas of grass) this hugely insignificant scrap of land is overlooked by most passers-by. 
I, however, stumbled upon one evening, fairly recently. Being in a... philosophical mood, let's say, and it being the first time I had been out with friends (who I go to school with and am ((or at least was until two weeks ago)) a part of a bubble with) in some significant while, with a child-size plastic sword I had bought from Poundland and some medieval tunes serenading me effortlessly from my earphones, I stood motionlessly in the centre of this Actually Still Green patch of grass, and breathed in and I smiled and I looked up.
And I saw the stars. 
Never before had I seen them so clearly; they were everywhere. Blinking, burning, burrowing in the vast black abyss, whatever you want to call it, and they were scintillating. There were so many. I had never felt so small, so tiny and insignificant, so incomparable to the universe than I did at that moment; I was nothing, and I was content with that. So, while I stood there, sword at my side and stars in my eyes, I fell back in love with life and realised that absolutely non of my problems were even half as formidable as they seemed. Honestly, I have no idea how long I was there, nor any clue of how many dog walkers were possibly concerned about the teenager with a sword and staring stoically upwards on some grass, but, for some strange reason, I feel a fondness towards that little scrap of greenery between my house, the church, and the endless stream of increasingly frustrated scousers trying to get home in rush hour. I've decided it's unofficially mine, and everything I own deserves a name. 
(I have seven plants named after various tennis players. I killed Andy Murray)
So, on account of that quite simply beautiful night sky, I thought I'd give my place a deserving name. 7

I called it Antares, the star that guards the heavens. 


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