Outpost

Previously:

The Space Man
Custodian of Heaven

In the age of reality shows, and wars between nations, and selfies posted on Facebook, seeking affirmation from souls one will never get to meet, there is an outpost halfway between this earth and the moon barely noticed by humans, whose affairs dwell not in the past - nor the future - but in the milliseconds of their every breath.

I too would have forgotten. That once, I used to look up to the heavens to catch a glimpse of this outpost as it trails across the vesper sky. Google still sends me alerts announcing its arrival. I would mark the date and time, only to be hindered by the pressing needs that keep me alive. On some days, the memory resurfaces, when pictures of this outpost - breathtaking and inspiring - are beamed back to the planet, on my Twitter account. My being will be filled with joy, of course, and sadness, because humanity has been reduced to seeing views of the atmospheres instead of pressing on, to sail yonder.

There are times I envy the past. When humanity teetered on the brink of mutual assured destruction, and the idea they have of leaving footprints to mark their time was to send machines - mechanical envoys - to tell their story. Nowadays, our species have become inward-looking. Cocooned and somehow content of our own mortality.

Of our limitations.

I see this picture and imagine floating next to the International Space Station, looking at the heavens with longing eyes gazing at eternity. And in the countless lives I might still live, while burdened by collective memory of lifetimes searching for reasons to exist, the picture distills what the heart yearns to speak. That vision of a watcher looking at the open ocean, while waiting, and hoping everyday, for something god-like to appear in the distance.

Searching the cosmos for otherworldly delights, and sentience, we carry on, and wait.