Why did I fall in love with space? Because it’s mine. And nobody else’s. Because it is isotropic. Because it is a heterogeneous paradise. Because love is choking on words and worlds and I think both of them can be infinite.

Because I could turn into a quasar, feel the night, the tentacles of void fueling me. I could catalyze the denudation of my putrid corpse and weather into a basin on a white dwarf in the andromeda galaxy.

Because fear is my primordial fog and I am ionized hydrogen, eternal and transient. Cepheids are phantoms. And phantoms are cepheids. My phantoms are my pulsating markers, pendering me over the cliff of sanity in this flat world. Because warm dark matter exists and it flattens out cusp, and cusps are spherical. Non-euclidean. Hypothetically never ending. But isn’t that what I am. Cascading over the slopes of beauty and sanity.

Because I am entangled with the night. With the cratered moon. Because no matter how many space stations we build there, no matter how many lunar launchers we land, no matter how much hydrological abundance it promises, the moon will always be the same gossamer ball of light, that shines in the shadows, imperfect and luminous.

Humanity is tethered to a vibrating string. We dream of finding life, solving the fermi paradox, being an interstellar civilization.

Loneliness, it outshines nebulas, magnetars and black holes, leaves us parched for home. For another pale blue dot.

Home is in the stars. In proxima centauri. In knowing we all started as nothing, that I grew and metamorphosed and nucleosynthesized. That one day I will return home, floating in this anisotropic void and and I will cherish its cold emptiness and I will be high on the never ending silence that is space.