NASA writes poetically about the science of space – the infinite darkness that we – our celestial little time bomb- are constantly floating through. There are craters on moons that can only be concealed by bigger craters. A collection of impacts unsuccessful in destroying the moon. I have yet to read about the weariness hungover from lunar battles. The moon just keeps being the moon and space still is without oxygen.
I feel myself floating away most days, still tethered to an air supply, still wrapped like plastic bubble wrap in a space suit. But I’m floating up and the air is thinning and I see thousands of tiny hands clawing at me, trying to take pieces of me. They must not realize how I’m already suffocating so if they get too close, I’ll stop breathing all the way.
I like to imagine that I can find my own celestial coordinates. Like a telescopic X-ray of my body, all the craters carved into my body would appear. A story of all my own lunar battles before I dissolved into particles finer than the dust on mars.
©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved