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18 | she/they | hypothetical astronaut | ekphrastic poet | haunted house

Message to Readers

space! i fricking love space so much! nasas gonna go to the moon in like a decade and then to mars and i'm siked! i look at the moon and go: wow that's my wife!

how it goes

November 13, 2019


    I’ve floated for a very long time. I don’t know how long. My watch broke, and they’re not supposed to do that here. Nothing up here is supposed to break, but it did. That’s all that matters now. That and the floating. 
    At this point no one is ever going to come get me. I am floating without the expectation of ever feeling the warm embrace of gravity again: to feel my feet reach the ground after a leap to nowhere. I am nowhere, and my feet will never reach the ground. 
    I’m assumed dead. That’s what happens when a space station explodes, ruptures, and flings the piece of it you were in, into deep space. I should be dead. That’s the expected outcome, I’ve done the math. And honestly, it doesn’t matter all that much that I’m not dead now, because I will be dead later, and then the people back home will be right. They can all go home and pat themselves on the back. I’m not being fair to them, but they’re not stuck in a piece of space junk without food, water, or supplies of any kind, with only a space suit, and a rapidly decreasing supply of oxygen for company. 
    When you dream, you dream first of the things you have been doing during the day—like walking, then slowly it’ll become the foundation for the weirder shit. I wonder if maybe that’s the way death works, if I’ll drift off in a forever trippier version of me doing this: floating, and turning, wrapping myself up in a ball and just trying to sleep, and turning, and turning. The thought makes me kind of sick to my stomach. Which means I’m probably not dead now, which is something.
    There are no windows here. I’m going to go fucking crazy before I die. I would have liked to see the ocean before I died, or at least what passes for a sky. Just a thought. A preference. 
    I lived in a house once. Now I live in a box. A morbid part of my brain has started calling it hospice. The hospice box. I float and hope to dream about having two feet in the grass, on the ground, in the earth, the dirt, the sand. 
    I sing songs to myself. I hum. I scream occasionally. It hasn’t been that long, but I need to do something to pass the time, I guess. It’s anyone’s bet whether I’ll die of dehydration or oxygen deprivation first, they match up pretty well, but I’m not actually sure which one I would prefer.
    I’m trying to remember how this one song goes. I think it’s the one I want to be singing when things start going hazy around the edges. And I can’t remember how it goes. I ask the white and beige walls of my hospice. They give me no reply. 
    And I’m trying to remember how this one song goes… 
    And I’m trying to remember how this one song goes…
    And I’m trying to remember how this one song goes… 


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  • Norah

    oh no......

    7 months ago
  • AbiJoy

    Norah! I can't believe you predicted quarantine :)

    7 months ago
  • AbiJoy

    Space horror does not get enough love. This is blessed. I hope your astronaut haunts the vacuum for all eternity bc this'll certainly haunt me for at least half of that. I gotta go take a melatonin and purge my playlists of potential earworms.

    about 1 year ago