Looking up, I saw the beautiful stars blinking upon me. Night breezes stroked my face; it was so quiet, except the chirping of some insects, likely crickets.
It was so familiar. This whole setting. The scene, the touch, and the sound.
When I was four years old, I spent a lot of time in a rural village that I called my homeland. On many summer and autumn nights, I sat in the courtyard, overwhelming myself with stars, ten times more then and there than now and here. The adults were listening to radio and chit-chatting in the rooms, while my cousins were either too old or too young to share my little paradise in the courtyard. Night breezes stroked my face as gently then, and I heard the chirping loud and clear. ‘Where is the sound from?’ I looked around and found nothing special. Then I looked at the stars. The stars, as they always are, were blinking in rhythms, ‘apparently’ according to the beats of that loud and clear sound. I thought I made a great discovery. I did not share this great discovery with anyone because I felt it might be obvious to anyone else.
Of course the stars do not chirp. I realised my mistake on a winter night, when the stars were still blinking but I heard no chirping. But I had no idea where the sound came from, and that troubled me for some time, until on a later summer night my elder cousins told me the truth.
I remember that ‘great discovery’ so vividly because, whenever I look at the stars, I still feel they are chirping, with their rhythmic blinking, although I have already known the truth.