Everything That's True Will Survive

Sitting in front of the computer...

being my only contact with the outside world. The soft hum of the air conditioner, the smallness of the room, my narrow bed. The kitchen area, the wardrobe...

I feel as if I'm in some kind of space capsule. A space outpost on a distant planet. A capsule hurtling through space. I am in a contained area, the very air provided to me through a life support system. I sit at the command seat of the capsule digesting data, waiting patiently for communications.

I spend hours in isolation, everything being controlled by me. Temper- ature, food rationing, meals, entertainment even outside excursions. I get dressed, as if in a space suit and head outside, leaving into foreign territory filled with dangers and terrors. Everything in motion, nothing in my control. I head back to the capsule, climbing in, securing its hatch.

I feel like a solitary man. Soon, it will be my sleep cycle. I will climb into bed and sleep for several hours to awake in my capsule tomorrow. Now my world even smaller because I have the brick wall to stare at no longer. The air conditioner covers up the entire window, letting in only diffused light. For all that I know it could be the cold, dark, steely surface of the moon on the other side of the window.

The command deck of the capsule. My laptop, is impressive. It brings everything to me. The weather, news, music, movies...everything. Even porn. There is nothing that I cannot provide for me. My food processing area, small, compact and yet provides abundantly. I am not without a meal at my disposal.

But the most impressive thing about my capsule, hurtling quietly through space, is me. It's sole occupant. Self contained, self sustaining, held together from madness by communication. I spend hours in this cramped space. I am calm. I am alone. I am at peace. I am alone. I am at grace. I am alone.

I have an altar with a patch of green in it, and photos. I have photos around my naked capsule of beauty and grace. I have my pills lined up for me to take on a daily basis. I have my clothes folded and put away, my bed, just large enough for me.

The question is, just where is this capsule going? If it's hurtling through space, speeding on its way, or if it has already landed on some long dead moon, what is its purpose? What is my purpose? What is my job? Am I to grow old, older, older, alone? Am I an experiment, like some gerbil in a cage, to see just how far the human psyche can stretch alone, in a city full of millions? Is that the purpose of this solitary mission?

I am busy with my memoirs, scribbling them down in the command center, pumping it out into the silence of space for anyone to hear me scream in the silence. But in space, there is no air. There are no air molecules to bash together to make sounds. In space, no one can hear you scream.

So why bother. Why care. Why do anything, other than check your food rations. Check the air conditioner to make certain that the life support is on. Clean this, clean that. Make the bed. Sweep the floor, wash the plastic dishes. Check the computer, run diagnostics to make certain that it is working at optimum efficiency. Wait for communication, reply if there are any. Make myself busy, and write.

Why should I do anything more?

Soon, I will be summoned to an under- ground outpost to work on nothing, to churn air. To waste a day more efficiently than I can in my capsule. That's alright. Why care? I am growing numb to it all. That's the plan no doubt. To grow numb, to feel nothing after awhile. To make you into a manikin, plastic and hard. As hard as the cold grip of space outside of the capsule. That from whence I came.

My dreams of my redhead in a bikini keeps me together. It sews the edges of the fraying clothing, it makes me tougher, makes me smile, makes me laugh. I think of my mother and she keeps me strong, my father keeps me enduring. I will make it. I will overcome everything thrown at me. I've survived life on the surface of the moon for two years. The rest is a cake walk.

I will survive.

As my capsule hurtles through the trackless, cold expanse of space.

Hobobob