No man is an island, they say.
Well, that’s true— we’re not a chunk of land floating in the middle of the ocean; we’re asteroids, meteors, comets, nebulous dust drifting in the cold wide silence of space.
There’s a deafening sweet quietness amidst all the crushing grind of colliding objects, sounds that are more felt than heard as impact after impact we strike each other into smaller particles of broken once-proud heavenly bodies.
And in our seemingly aimless course across the gravitational limits of our galaxies, we see them: those planets, with a number of satellites orbiting them. Those stars with vibrant planetary systems, and stars who ate up their own systems.
We just weave through the emptiness; maybe one day, we’ll crash into one another, or burn up in some atmosphere.
Maybe we’ll find ourselves free from our own galaxy and end up in another.
Maybe we’ll happen across some mystery— a black hole, worm hole, or supernova.
In the end, we’re just space debris of varying sizes, and our momentary realizations are just plain amusing compared to the gazillion years of this universe’s existence.
Maybe all we need is more space. Because sometimes, all we need is a little space to mean something.
Maybe all we have is more space. Because sometimes, we’re all just drifters— aimless adventurers of the cosmos. Dud explosives of the Big Bang, unnecessary intergalactic Lego pieces, leftover dirt in-between God’s fingernails from Creation Week.
We’re not solitary islands on earth. We are space rocks. And hopefully one day, stargazers will get to remember us as falling stars: interstellar fireworks without the glorious, resounding bang — nothing, but a mere deep-space sigh.