Event Horizon

Chapter 8

At first I nearly blew up with joy when I heard about the climate situation of the planet's twilight. I can't talk based on personal account (I'm still stuck in my little room, not planning to get so high off alien air I ascend to heaven) but Liesel gave me the figures, and a good majority of the strip is suitable for extraterrestrials that would enjoy the feeling of waiting in a cramped hospital clinic in stuffy summer air. What I didn't account for, though, is the fact that life typically demands a little more than just barely tolerable weather.

The drone I sent out last night came back with some footage. It's a little long so I'll transcribe it for you here:

Collected a soil sample.

Bare land.

Bare land.

Bare land.

Continuous flight for 2 days before hope was given up and aircraft was returned.

I'll relay it to Liesel in a bit.

This is why nobody's an optimist anymore. Best you can get is being right and that's only a fraction of the time; I am convinced that all optimists are secretly masochists that enjoy the feeling of being woefully disappointed. Eventually I figured out that the soil was practically soaked with mercury (which I only found out after accidentally dropping the sample box and screaming like a toddler), so I upped sticks and left as soon as I could convince myself that the little silver puddle I had to clean up wasn't going to kill me in my sleep.

My nap was as refreshing as it needed to be, up until a whole bunch of ideas started yelling in my head. I suddenly regretted not asking Liesel for anything to go out and actually explore the planet myself. Granted, I'd be toast if I actually did ever come across civilization, which was what I needed to be on the lookout for in the first place, but I enjoyed some very pleasant thoughts about tossing paper airplanes and ranking all the planets based on how much fun I had– Earth gravity and air is getting pretty lame.

I spent the rest of my day milling about my room, foraging like an animal for something that would've been at the very least mildly entertaining. Instead I came across an old journal. As I leafed through the pages, I was filled to the brim with emotions: embarrassment, disgust, and unadulterated cringe. The most of the chuckle it mustered out of me came from a date where I described the experience of being called a pussy for feeling bad for a hamburger. The rest of the handwriting was smudged beyond comprehension, but the yellowed pages were still fun to crinkle around.

One thing was clear now though: to keep my sanity tethered, I had to occupy myself a little, either by writing or drawing something. I'd also have to be proud of it if I didn't want a midlife crisis at the age of 23.

I've always wanted to write an epic, but stories are really only good if you've got something to say.