There is no such thing as a first page. You
realize these things very quickly out here. No such thing as a first word
or sentence. The nothingness has to be, for something to exist in it, and that’s
where we got trapped. We are trapped in the fact that we once never where, and
once will cease to exist. We are trapped in that fact, and cannot -no matter
how we look at it- grasp it or even begin to understand it. What does it mean
to exist in this temporary opening in the wormhole between two worlds, between
the living and the dead, between coming and what has gone.
All these messages we are getting from
earth are just echoes by the time they reach us. Before the ink has dried,
we could be the last of our kind. There is something immensely frightening about
not dying with them. About surviving out here, while the rest is wiped out. It
seems like we will have a lonelier passing, like a severed body part, a hand or
a toe, outliving the host. We would die by the thousands, while they would have
died as billions.
There is no last hope. Once the roots have been
pulled and burnt, the branches and bark has fallen off and dried, the seed is
lifting and finding its own place, but it will never be that tree that grew.
The water, the very ground, will be different. Even the sun will have an
unfamiliar glow, cold will be colder, hot hotter. Solitude will find a new,
deeper meaning.
