outer space.

by The Dreamer

i will never know why i have always been so fascinated with whatever lays out there, up there, far far away. the multitude of universes, beyond our planet and our solar system and our galaxy.

why am i so obsessed with a bunch of dead things?

it isn’t more liberating out there. there are still laws, many unwritten laws, that govern the immensity of everything, like how you will keep going at the same speed forever and ever and ever unless something crashes into you; but then, of course, it’s likely you’ll die.

and you won’t even shine when you die. you won’t be some glistening ball of hope winking down at a desperate, lonely kid looking out of his window on a sleepless night.

you will be so small, the smallest of them out. thrown out of orbit. debris.

your favourite colour is yellow because it reminds you of sunshine.  but the sun is red and hot and it will burn you to crisps.

another morbid mention of death.

see? outer space isn’t really that cool after all.

the space you take up, in your bed, under your covers, where you can feel where the sheets start and where the sheets end, where the walls cave in, and where the edges of your pillow are – they are enough.

safe.

sometimes when i talk too robustly or i laugh too loud, i feel like i’m taking up too much “outer space”. keep it small, keep it in. 

and then i think of just how big everything out there really is, a ratio that can’t be distinguished by numbers and time and distance in its full entirety. unknown variables.

and i say fuck it, and i throw back my head, and i let myself free.

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