Of Travel
Brennan Guidry

“It is a strange thing, that in sea voyages, where there is nothing to be seen, but sky and sea, men should make diaries; but in land-travel, wherein so much is to be observed, for the most part they omit it; as if chance were fitter to be registered, than observation. Let diaries, therefore, be brought in use.” – Sir Francis Bacon

Perhaps all the issues pressed on relic Earth, from revelations through centuries and centuries of rise and fall, through speakers of prostration and spites of absorption, the only true issue that stirs every human curiosity, if it exists, will only matter, netted under a mother biosphere. Too soon from the cave, too far from the stars. The love for space serpents through modern society at a fledging crawl. Every last dreamt philosophy on space, of the capsule golden years, through which, miraculously, the greatest of science fiction birthed, has withered to a cosmic cry. Every tear of the galactic dream stays shunned, in the distilled streets, in roads of realist consent. A dark voice on screen gently woos our ticklish thoughts that the higher forces blackened our neighbor highway for threat instead of trek.This is bad tenderness, Gaia screaming you to your seat in her burning myrrh hall, the weaved queen by her side, that crowns human fear with a flora throne, to appreciate no more than grass and longing less than mountains. All these are diversions, battlements against spectra Mata romance. But sister moon still gleams despite this, a crackled centauri jewel that beams each sapien with proof of distant fruit. The moon is a screaming spirit, wet as the enveloping sea, its only self-portrait. A solar passion for space still waits in our subconscious. There is an entire drafting of the future embedded in our mind’s naturesque love, now a mere ineptitude waiting to uncage, and the moon is the first shining key. So easily is this cast aside by debates on asphalt desires of the promised towers to come. Stars are calm, their surface holds no life and no reason to unwelcome. Planets are frightened, every planet regrets its existence, even our own. To flea into the novels of space is the ultimate answer to all fire and sin the sun has given humanity. God’s mistake was making us, but the quarantine of human passion is a greater mistake.