Drifting in the Space of Ramblings

Ramblings About Hope

In Memory of Jerry Garcia

"Our prayers are with you" - is the first message transmitted by Morse code from the space station, followed by: - "You will not be forgotten."

I feel a pain in my chest, a tightness that is the hope draining from my body. For the first time, I realize there is truly no chance of a miraculous rescue like in Hollywood movies. They say hope dies last, so I wonder, how is it possible that I am still alive?

This path is only for my steps, a road destined for me between the Sun and the Moon. In life, when you fall, you fall alone, and there's rarely anyone there to help you up. I'm falling into an infinite abyss without creating ripples in the air because my chasm is a vacuum. If I knew the way, I would go back home.

My musings are secondhand; they've been thought before, maybe it would be better if I emptied my brain.

Hope is gone... I can see it in the distance, flashing in Morse code. I feel empty. I reach out to try to grasp the light blinking in vain.

I feel like screaming.

I scream.

What is a man without hope?

What remains from there?

I think again of the slug walking on the edge of a razor, having its body torn apart slowly. It's how I feel. Slugs leave a trail wherever they go, a path of mucus that serves so they can return from where they came. I wish I had a yellow brick road to follow and could go back home. I imagine a slug trying to get back home after a storm, the mucus washed away by the rain, significantly reducing its hopes of finding its way back. The fear of encountering mean kids with salt ready to destroy it. In the past, hunters would crush slugs on the handles of their spears to make them sticky, thus reducing the chances of losing them in battles. Poor slugs without hope.

Hope is as fragile as a flower, it can be shattered in seconds, like the Kadupul flower that grows in Sri Lanka. This flower is so fragile that it lives only a few hours, blooming around midnight and dying in the early morning. Imagine having a whole life in darkness, not having time to get used to feeling things around you, without dreams, desires, or even hope of lasting long. The Kadupul flower is like a newborn who dies in the incubator. I don't like this flower; we did some experiments with it on the space station. Its fragility, its short life, and its whiteness contrasting with the black backdrop of the universe, which is now my coffin, are things that depress me.

I wish I could believe in a miraculous rescue again, even if it was for five seconds. I wish I could have hope again.