A Dialogue I Will Not Explain
If you know, you know. |
“Do you ever wonder how something so simple (sun setting quietly upon the deep red horizon as, hands no longer bound, we sit facing the end), so, well, right, can also be so difficult? We, together, are watching as our last day fades into eternal night, knowing that this solar system, this fragile gravitational assemblage that has provided us stability for five billion years, has suddenly collapsed. But we will be completely fine: For five-hundred million years, we have shored up our resources knowing that being flung out of our orbit was possible. We have the capacity, within the next 24 hours, to lift every human remaining on this Earth into the cosmos, and to begin searching for another world. All 886 million of us watch this brilliant sunset, brilliant red light against coruscant purple clouds, knowing that we may never see this sight again; all we have is now. And yet, as the sun continues in its final descent towards our northeastern horizon, I cannot help but languish at the fact that this, this… this tree, this cacophony of chirping, the waves from this quietly settling lake–all of it will be gone. And both of us, as well as the rest of our planet, will just leave and forget all of it. And we will spend three million years looking for a new planet, a new rock, when the entire time we had something almost perfect already. I mean, we must be able to salvage this planet somehow, right? Surely the trees can survive without sunlight, right? Could we not just craft an artificial sun to provide us sustenance in these intermediary periods? Could we, could we, could we, do something?"
You know, before this our problems were so futile. We talked about tests as if they were the end of the world, complained about the public transport and worried that we would not be able to travel internationally during our next week off. Those problems, especially compared to this moment, seemed so, well, pointless. How would you feel, seriously, if you knew this was your last day on planet Earth, your last second with something to which you are so attached? Knowing it was my job to keep things easy and smooth as we lost it all, I tried to project confidence to her (and you will be the judge on whether I was successful). But really, my entire body ached to tell her that I felt the same way–that, despite knowing our escape from this planet was a necessary suffering, I was heartbroken about the finality; that, as I am with her at this moment, I know that this will be the last moment we spend together, sunlight in our eyes, watching the twinkling lake surface fade into a tangerine horizon. How do I project confidence in the face of this transient doom?
“I must ask you, seeing how you are unable to process this loss: What have you lost in your life? Have you ever lost a loved one, a lover, a job or something else important to you?”
The bench we were sitting on was not a bench, really, but a slightly raised stone platform, cold to the touch, which at its opposite end grazed the lake surface. I remember how many times I had been there prior to that evening, watching the skyscrapers behind me (907’, 790’, 742’) reflecting the coruscant orange light until the sun fell below the horizon. There was such certainty, such romance, such excitement, knowing that the sun would rise the next morning. But now I sit here, on this cold final evening, knowing that we have exhausted any such possibility of a morning. I really do wonder what she possibly could have lost that could compare–this loss is something new for us both, though I say nothing.
“Why, no. I lost my grandmother when I was young, but I didn't really get to know her. All my other grandparents are alive, and so are my parents. I have never been in a relationship, I have never been rejected from a college I wanted to go to (I did lose that one job, though). But honestly, no, I have not felt loss. Especially not a loss like this, where I know that there is no other realistic option.”
Me neither. I am projecting this confidence, acting like I am some man, when really I am just a boy who, upon hearing a passing commuter train, would stop everything he was doing and rush to the window, watching a thousand souls, locked to their phone screens, pass by at eighty miles per hour. How I longed to be traveling, moving, while standing still. And how I long to stand still now, knowing that for the next million-billion hours I will be moving! But I think I have some idea of what to say, what to tell her, so that she and I can just enjoy this sunset.
“We have made a decision that, though we cannot see it now, could ostensibly benefit us for billions of years. We could, by abandoning our home planet in search of a better world, be opening ourselves to something that might work better for us (I mean, we don’t have a sun right now). That is not to say that what we have now is not great: This planet, as we know, is built for us, and we were built for it. One could say, even, that ‘our personalities are the same.’ But, without a sun, we have lost the sustenance, the energy–the things that keep our relationship with the Earth stable. We have been thrown off balance, and we now fall. So, of course, we will be sad. Something that could have lasted, due to factors that could be remedied but probably not, ends. Our necessary chart ahead–our search for a new planet in this sea of worlds–is nonetheless exciting, but it is okay to be sad that the rock we once had is now gone. I know you are quite sad; know that I am too.”
She did not respond to me. The sun crossed the horizon one last time, and we watched the tangerine sky fade into an electric blue, and then to a midnight black, dotted with a brilliant glitter of a cosmos towards which we would soon travel. Heartbroken and reluctant to leave, we entered the ship, and commenced our journey to find a new home.
Comments
Post a Comment