astronaut
hello, says the astronaut, is anyone out there? the globe, blue and green and full of life, spins on below. a world, the world, his world - so close. sitting in front of him like it’s in a museum gift-shop. the astronaut raises one, clunky gloved hand and reaches out. it looks so close. it is deafeningly quiet in space -- sound does not travel in a vacuum. he can hear the hum of city streets when he closes his eyes.
what's stopping you from stepping forward, walking home, little man? what's keeping you suspended here? your life-line has been severed, and your oxygen is low. just step home. it's right there. come home.
the astronaut twitches. re-entry means fire, warmth so strong it becomes heat, all consuming.
it is so cold up here, he says.
it is so lonely up here. the warmth, the heat, would be comforting - even if just for a moment. just a moment would be enough.
you're a foolish creature. an animal, trapped in a vastness of nothing, a beast who thought he could be more than just meat, than just flesh. where are your gods now? your math, your science, your calculations? you are alone. you are utterly alone.
the astronaut sobs. the sound is swallowed by the stars that surround him. he thinks about church pulpits, the sound of applause, a car horn, the neon lights of the city, hands on hands. unnecessarily extravagant desserts, petty arguments with a neighbour. another person's voice.
it is so cold here, in the sky, in the universe. moments before he runs out of oxygen, he understands that there is no god here. no creature belongs here, in the icy cold. he is alone. he is so completely alone.