Work Text:
☽ ☽ ☽
I.
Space is burning metals, and burning gasoline. A pretty little thing full of wonder and full of color when you look at her from the far out but as you get closer to her, you see her self-destruction in her black holes, you see her violence in her spinning planets, and you see her rebirth from her stars.
Space is dead and space is alive.
You do not know how to describe space, and it is stupid. You are an author, are you not? You should know how to describe everything from the color of the buttons of the mother of the house to the color of the eyes of the boy you might like.
Some author you are.
II.
You are curious of how there is no gravity in space.
Planets and asteroids float across space, as they revolve around something bigger than them. Metal and machines and ships weigh almost nothing in space, and even you, ever the frail one, can lift them with the use of your little finger. The stars are hot and burning, forcing gravity to exist as they take and swallow up hydrogen and oxygen, preparing to grow up and unwittingly preparing for death.
Astronauts lazily float in their ship as they watch over their home, their aching hearts wanting to go back to the planet of their both, aching to touch their loved one’s skin once more, their only solace with glitch video messages that is never enough and with the knowledge they can pretend they’re protectors of their loved ones here in space as they watch over the world, knowing deep down that they are powerless. (is this what being god feels like? helpless and powerless, wanting to act but cannot? you do not want to be god, but you are god)
You think about astronauts a lot, about how they swim across space. You are almost envious of them every time you look at space. They’re free from the world, free from everything, free from—don’t think about him Poe. You know better.
They don’t have any connections to the world; they don’t have any liabilities out in space. It’s one man for himself and the other for himself.
You think that they should be happy, all alone and floating and finally fucking free from every responsibility they have and free to do whatever they would like. You would like that for yourself, to be free of deadlines, to be free from nagging authors wanting to confine you into one small and repetitive storyline. You’d want to visit space and just write about all grizzly murder mysteries you want to write but never could’ve because of unfortunate circumstances that is your contract with your publishing company.
Fucking devils, that’s the lot of them.
II.V
(you would never say it out loud, but he too is a reason.
you never did want to meet that detective whose words affect you in the inexplicable ways that once more, you cannot describe to the best of your ability. his touch burns your skin in the most delightful of ways and his words are like the burning of the stars and you are hydrogen. you are slowly, but surely, being sucked in to your death and you are sure that the detective will also one day burn out.
contrary to popular opinion, you do not want to see the detective burn out. you would like to see him go out in a burning blaze of glory, rather than becoming a black hole.)
II.VI
(you do not want him to become a black hole and thus you stop liking him to the stars)
II.VII
a former astronaut sits in front of an interviewer. he is fiddling with his hands, almost nervous and anxious to get the hell out of the interviewer. it has only been a week ever since he came back from space and perhaps, this interviewer thinks, he is not yet used to gravity.
“space?” he asks, and his face looks like a mixture of happiness and nostalgia. his american features are defined as he laughs at your question of what’s it like in space. “kid, i’m forty years old and a pretty good scientist in my opinion. being in space for four months when i was young and cynical was one of the most formative months in my career as a scientist, but now? as an adult who was given another chance to go back to space.” he laughs and looks at the interviewer closely.
“listen to me closely kid, if you have family on earth and if you have someone you care about on earth, it’s gonna be one of the most shittiest days and months of your life as you float around in space, wondering what the fuck’s going on down there and worrying yourself fucking sick.”
III.
Space is inexplicable feeling in your gut as he wastes your time, wanting to know about your new novels. Space is the inexplicable feeling in your gut as he tells you the strengths and weakness of your novels and how it was obvious from the very start of the novel that the protagonist was the killer. Space is the inexplicable feeling that flares up from yourself every time he criticizes you or every time he praises you.
Space is burning metal and burning gasoline and it is the inexplicable feeling in your gut as you try your best, to improve, and to prove him wrong, as you push yourself to your limits to impress him.
Space is burning metal and burning gasoline, and you burn from the inside out because of him.
You are thankful for his time and you leave.
You do not want to be burned. You do not want to once more bear bruises and burn marks that you once held when you are young. Becoming an adult makes you feel cynical of space.
IV.
You float when you are with him. You do not notice this.
He smiles at you and he gives you your book. He gives you praise, tells you good job, tells you what he liked about it and suddenly you do not care about your other critics, or your publishing company’s thoughts about your other works. You feel like an astronaut floating around in space.
He catches up to you, even if you try to leave him in the dust. He puts his shoulder around you and laugh as you react surprised and make yourself a fool. He puts fire back in your veins, and burns the ice that you’ve surrounded yourself with. He is eta carinae and you are only pluto, but you desperately want to revolve around him instead of your faraway sun. (you forget, eta carinae is farther away than your sun)
If—
If—
If space is burning metal and burning gasoline, if space is the origin of all life and the origin of the stars and you, if space is all beauty and all destruction, then perhaps the boy in front of you is your space.
Your stomach tries to settle itself as you float around in dark blues pace as you desperately try and reach him once more. You find his hand, intertwine yours with his, and you do not care if your hand is burning at his warm touch. You simply do not care, and you simply, bring yourself closer to him.
He is the star and you are hydrogen. You would gladly give yourself up to him.
V.
Space is burning metals and burning gasoline, but space is also a warm body and warm smiles as he tells you scathing criticism of your work. Space is beauty and destruction encompassing you and burns you in ways you could not have thought of, it burns you and you decide that you like it.
You do not understand astronauts, but you somewhat understand space.