How would one think to begin if not by returning to the point of origin? Walk backwards, my love—follow my echoes ‘cross this milky expanse, trust that I broadcast for as long as I live and later, all will know that light is but another speed limit. How could we hope to navigate space wielding naught but passion and a pen? I will hold my breath and fold into you a hundred times plus three—only then will our atoms embrace the universe.
The lowest key on the grand piano of my childhood was an A—a deep sub-contra-octave, shaking the earth beneath firmly planted feet. I recall the density of those vibrations—the low A, a singularity that startled primordial waters, upon whose ripples rode the remnants of our collision, the wobbling cosmic swell that birthed the universe’s glimmering, fingerprint-dappled ebony, reflecting starlit eyes long dead. Those prints remain, proof of our entanglement across impossible spacetimes. Witness me whence you wait, and fall, will I, yes, fall, whenever you will, for floating is a fatal misnomer. Bodies always fall—for, toward, or past one another, for better or for worse—some achieve stable orbits while others are drawn too harshly to save themselves from collision—all pulled by the relative gravity of their own desperation. And yet there are others whose fields are too weak to pull anything in, so they fall without bearing, tugging at the hems of the fabric of the cosmos.
Are you ready? The launch parameters are undecided. Smack the monitor once or twice to restore visibility. The stabilizers were functional last time I checked—Are you ready? We will be stepping—no, swimming—or rather, pulled by our scruffs upward—or not, because there is no “up” in space—only away—but where to? And who is doing the pulling? Are you ready? The Earth has us fettered by our feet but the cuffs binding our affections to the stars are stronger. Are you ready? Let’s wing it.