When I was a child I used to sometimes dream of a wandering star. A mysterious ancient flame that moved across the night sky. It was a glow that seemed a part of me somehow, connected to the half-recognised grief of a lost homeland. A shattered, once-enchanted realm. I couldn't explain this grief to the grown-ups around me or the other children. I couldn't even adequately put it into words. The feelings, the visions and premonitions. Endless shifting between worlds. It can be so lonely and terrifying; seeing things that other people can't see. Knowing things that other people don't know. A young boy desperate for understanding, told that he was either a liar, mad or cursed. After a while you start believing those fears, especially in your darkest and loneliest moments. Perhaps that's why I dreamt so often of my wandering star. I called this star my friend. Sometimes I imagined it was an angel and that when I slept she would come down from the night to visit my window. Watching over me, singing to me, soothing my agonies. A strange floating light. It was only recently that I came to understand the true meaning of that night-star. That ancient flame drifting through the black. As a boy I wanted to believe it was healing my losses and tending my grief whilst I slept. But as I got older I stopped dreaming of that wandering star. I began to think I was a fool. There were no angels, no floating lights, nor sweet music at my window as I slept. Only suffering, shadows and wraiths. But I was wrong. I realize that now. The floating light was so much more than a simple childhood fantasy. The heart of the boy I used to be had been right all along. That friend in the sky was an integral part of my future hope and healing. An angel like a lantern at my window. Singing to me of faith, heaven and home.