(This blog is becoming nothing but a collection of thought bubbles, I’ll have something posted up – my first shawarma-related entry – on Monday. Tuesday latest.)
All my life I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut. The mere thought of being away – literally away – from everything connected to home but still being close enough to be reminded of its existence always gave me the chills. Maybe it stems from the fact that I’ve always liked feeling minuscule, or maybe it’s because I feel more comfortable looking from the outside than I do immersing myself in things, but there was something about the thought of donning a white body tube with pipes protruding from it that used to make me giddy with excitement.
Until I learned one thing:
Due to the fact that the earth’s gravitational pull weakens the farther you go away from it, there comes a time just beyond the earth’s atmosphere when the tears of astronauts no longer fall. Their eyes mist, sure; but any more effort to have tears run down their cheeks can only lead to distress and heartache because it’ll never happen.
A few thousand miles into the air, astronauts can’t cry anymore.
I don’t know, I guess the thought seemed all too familiar to me that I realized I wouldn’t really be doing anything drastically different if I became an astronaut myself. How different would not crying in outer space be to crying on earth when I don’t really cry now, despite the fact that I really really really want to? When all I get for wanting to cry is a pulsating forehead and half-lidded eyes, partly-swollen and marooned from all the scrubbing made by never really clean hands? When all I’ll get is exhaustion without exhilaration? When all I’ll have are overexcited lungs which I’ll have to trick into thinking they have short breaths they need to produce so that I can breathe normally again?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Maybe it’s just as well I’m never going to be an astronaut then. Already feeling like one on Earth is already hard enough.
Of perpetual finds 