light

Something extraordinary happened today. We were cruising at low speed through the dark velvet curtains in a sleepy lethargia fueled, no less, by a powerless feeling of abandonment, as a bright flash inadvertedly lighted the right half of the space ahead and the whole ship shook like hit by the falcon jab of an outter-galaxy cyclope, waking me up from my semi-conscious state of oblivion and leaving me eagerly turning the ship in circles and circles and circles trying to find the source of this disruption.

We turned and turned, Marcus, for the first time in many many months, sitting next to me, his eyes open in eager antecipation for what there might be - whatever there might be -, monitoring the again dark horizon in search for another sign, in silence, both of us, sharing finally, after forever living in two sides of a single wall, a moment of common understanding, until the enthusiasm wore down and no light was left other than the beeping red alarm of overheating engines.

Marcus returned to the bunk from where he had been woken up - he never saw the light, in fact - and I poured myself some more tea and held on tight to the controls, moving on, certain, now, that, however far we might be from salvation, we are not alone, no matter what.

I fell asleep soon after, and the Ship moved on, randomly; in the early days, I used to feel anxious to let it loose drifting aimlessly around the unknown, but have since learnt that steering it towards a black multi-dimensional horizon is as good as leaving it to itself. In fact, I could sleep all day and still reach places as good as this emptiness, but there's only so much rest your body needs, and I'm no different, so I hold on tight to the machine, on my waking hours, albeit no longer convinced that my judgement plays any role in our fate.

I hope I'm awake when the next flash hits us, like I was today, because, if not for anything else, it proves me right, and Marcus wrong, and I'm the Captain of this junk, after all, and once the Captain looses his faith, we'll both just rot in despair.

Onwards, then, towards the next light.

cruising the night

Some days, brighter thoughts cross my head. Not all is always dark in my inner reaches, even if there's no match to outter Space's gloom. Safe for a couple of stars that shine bright enough to remind us we're not yet condemned to infinite void, we've been navigating a fireless sky for as far as I can remember now.

We've been in darkness for a long long while, almost total darkness, but I'm alive and burning like an incendiary advent candle gone mad and spread over the whole crisp pine wreath. I'm am burning burning burning with the thought that new, overwhelming, almost indigestable brighter days are to come. It doesn't get blacker than black. How empty of hope can you get? Only so empty. There's always a fire lit somewhere, if not where you are.

I should know better than take things for granted, of course, and that there's a fire somewhere doesn't mean I'll ever be able to pilot this Ship there within the timeframe of my own life. We're rotting in our stagnation, Marcus and myself.

But what to do? Each hint of light in the endless spacial horizon is an exaltation to the motionlessness of our dimming hope, and am I to blame if I still believe the next light can be the last I ever see in front of me, before I step into it and I'm just surrounded by the blissful bath of rebirth, and never again have to seek for that burning candle in the dark, because there will be dark no more?

Yes, I should know better, but that doesn't mean I know better, so when a light shows up, I light up myself, and call Marcus and debit my overbearing enthusiasm, and I believe it all over again. He,  as expected, won't do more than nod and say "Indeed, a light, Sir", and return to his little room after a short bow, because he believes no more in salvation but I, I revolve, I burn and burn with the hope that this is finally it.

I push the handle even further, I force the engines, I stretch this Ship forward, until...

Well.

Some days, brighter thoughts cross my head, be it amidst total darkness or faced with the hint of a new light. Today, in darkness, I know that as far as I'm able to pilot this bloody thing, I'll do it, and I will find a goddamn way back to Earth or any liveable environment, and if I don't, then I'll die trying, until the very end convinced that I'll manage to find my path.