I packed all my troubles in a duffle bag and departed.
The white-hot tail streaked into oblivion, an afterburner to propel me. My rocket was lit, I landed, and here I will stay, my basecamp in interstellar isolation. I have reached my outer limits.
The Martians saw me coming, but they rolled up the red carpet long before I knocked on their front gate. Martians are pricks like that—they’d be the first to douse all the house lights if they saw you turn into the driveway. It could be the scarcity of oxygen, maybe water, too. Regardless, they are entirely inhospitable, which is acceptable for this mission.
I do not crave company.
I have ventured beyond the furthest point I have ever been. Where I can gasp and grasp for my last breath. Wrestle with heavy breathing and heavy limbs in a heavy struggle. I crave more than my heart can take. I will beat myself into submission and then give myself the kiss of life. Resuscitation is essential, but first, I must face my breaking point and journey on.
Alone.
Unlike the Martians, my door is wide open, and I invite the misery and the pain. Because it has been seeking me for a while now, let it enter, teeth bared, snarling, in absolute quiet, and I will confront it. Skin it. Consume it. Bathe sorrowfully in the noiseless fray and frenzy from having nothing left in the tank. I will gorge on the toxic silence and rise again, a fat new moon up here.
Now that I've landed, I plan to stare through tears for some time and lick my wounds. Adrift and idle, I will heal and watch the parade from above—as you scurry about, frantically crashing headlong into each other, caught in an avalanche of a million abbey bells, clanging, tolling, and endless.
The noise will be relentless.