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  • The stars are brighter in the woods. Photos can't even do them justice, can't capture the beauty in the sheet of blackness.

    They're so bright that they don't seem like stars at all, but rather jewels of other people's hopes and dreams woven together and thrown into the sky.

    I didn't know what real silver looked like until I looked to those stars this weekend.

    There are people that are nature people, that crave that great outdoors mentality, live for the thrill of hiking and trying to be one with nature. It's a drug of its own, nature.

    And people can hike the Appalachian Trail. They can spend months and even years in the mountains, just living and breathing and being. They can climb Mount Everest and reach that platinum, euphoric burst.

    But eventually, they'll have jobs to get back to. Schooling to finish. Taxes to pay. Paperwork to complete.

    Even when you're living it fully, life catches up to you.

    So the stars turn into an infrequent high, a dream that is reached every once in a while, a beauty that's fleeting and treasured as long as possible. And the woods vanish into the trenches of our minds as a happiness that's lingering, a joy that exists every once in a while. Happiness becomes a dream, a memory, an anecdote that starts with, "Remember that one time when...?"

    The stars know their hypnotic power. They know the agony they cause, the way they turn nature into an addictive drug of happiness. And yet, they're always in the deep of the woods, twinkling in the blanket of the night.
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