Feed the Muse: Inner Monologues (Vol. I) [√]

[ 6 years & the universe ]

Year one. I crash-landed into your orbit; engines humming, alarms blaring, radio beeping. My heart rattled with the impact, sending sparks and electricity right through my bloodstream. I sent a distress signal, an SOS, a call for help, and yet there was nothing but static on the line. I became utterly lost, away in space, out there in the universe, falling deeper into your eyes that remind me of my coffee, hazel brown, just the way I like it. I was far away from earth.

Year two. I decided to leave the safety of my ship to go down and take my first step on your terrain, first breath on your atmosphere, first touch on the contours of what you have to offer. To my right, I saw your mountains, the beautiful, jagged, sharp edges, covered in prime snow, big, looming, a force of nature, and in its arms lies your heart, chipped at the corners, but still covered in gold dust. To my left, I saw your oceans, the wide, gaping, trembling waves, roaring its song of the sea, deep, frightening, a terrible whirlpool, and in its mouth lies your words, coated in cruelty, but still sounding bittersweet. Mesmerized, I walked further, not looking back, not caring, not wondering, my gaze transfixed on the beauty that stood before me. I forgot about earth.

Year three. I built a home in you, made of the leaves and sticks I found on your forest floors. I abandoned my quest for freedom, for a way to get out, for a way to be found, and stayed and stayed and stayed and stayed and stayed. Days blended into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, until there was nothing but a blur image of humankind in the recesses of my memory. There was only your mountains, and your oceans, your words, and your heart. I was lost. There was no earth.

Year four. On my ship, the radio beeped with an incoming call for help. Out there below, people were coming to save me from you. I severed the connection immediately, desperately, terribly, suddenly filled with alarm, with dread, with anxiety, with the looming possibility of never seeing you again. They will come and take me away. You are my earth.

Year five. I came back to earth.

Year six. Almost every night, I look up at the night sky and I try to remember, remember, remember, remember, remember, remember, remember, what is what like when I left my heart, my soul, my existence, in your gravitational pull. I grapple with my memories as they flash before me in a myriad of hectic, blurry flashes that give no justice to what you mean to me. You are more than earth.