Despondent

The Astronaut

The astronaut floats longingly in a dark abyss of nothingness.

From his feather-like appearance, you'd assume he hadn't a care in the world; you'd assume that he was weightless, without worry or struggle or care in the galaxy - but for that, you'd be mistaken; his problems are many... His oxygen is running thin.

His boots are strapped tightly, his suit stitched seamlessly. There are patches on his chest - ones that remind him of home and yet, he cannot recall ever having one; when surrounded by the black mass of an endless universe, hardly anything is worth recollection.

That is, except for the reason why he's here, floating.

There are many to blame for his lonesome endeavor and he is most certainly the primary suspect; it was his actions, after all, that sent him here... To this wasteland. For it was he who inked his fate onto the white, thinly cut paper with the swift check inside the tiny, perfect box that now confines him to this endless torment of floating... And floating... And floating.

Not only does he float, but he drifts.

He drifts from one dark corner in the universe to another, never quite hitting a wall, but coming dangerously close. Perhaps if he would try to float in some form of a direction - towards Earth... Or the moon - he'd find some ground to finally rest upon. But no matter how forcefully he struggles, and kicks, and wiggles around, his efforts are hopelessly futile and the oxygen in his tank continues to dwindle.

He'll die soon - but death is not far from what he has already experienced; he's bruised, scarred, wilted, and broken. And although there are many to blame for his beaten form, he is most guilty.

He's lonely - such as death. He floats endlessly, father and farther from any hope for survival and eventually, he goes immobile. He lets the absence of gravity carry his weightless form through the darkness, the dim twinkle from galaxies far away acting as quiet beckons lulling him to sleep.

And so he does - for death is no more lonely than the vast emptiness of space; at least in death, he'll have someone to hold his hand.

The oxygen tank runs dry as it's last sip is taken, the warning beeps of the paper white suit only background music to this eulogy. Soon the universe is silent again as his body becomes space debris, another speck in its wake.

The astronaut floats motionlessly in the dark abyss of nothingness as a result of his own accord.

And as for the diver who trudges along the sea floor - a crack appears.