Victoria in space

There was a point in my life

where I lived in a place that felt

like a shoebox and

I never thought

I would live

somewhere smaller.

It turned out I can live somewhere smaller

—I signed up

to man this shuttle

and float in space for a year. 

The irony of feeling like

I don’t have enough

space

in

space

isn’t lost on me. Trust me.

It also isn’t lost on me

that I am more disconnected

than I have

ever been 

in my entire life.

That isn’t and shouldn’t be a surprise.

Tiny space,

alone,

so far away I might as well be dead.

Disconnection.

Makes sense.

Where could I find

connection

up here anyway?

How could I find connection

in the stars,

a million million miles away

from even someone I can’t stand,

let alone

someone I love?

I have more in common with

roiling balls of gas,

chunks of rock, hunks of ice,

clouds of comets,

a meteor with a tail a thousand miles long.

There’s romance there,

at least on paper.

There’s romance in the thought of celestial connection,

just like there is with oceans and earth and mountains

and flames.

I miss the connection I had in my tiny apartment

with my partner and my dog,

with my friends and my community,

but I still wonder:

maybe I signed up for this time in space

long before

I got there physically;

maybe I have always dreamed of one thing

while pretending I want another;

an alien actor in an alien body with an alien mind and an alien heart.

It’s such a

funny thing

to yearn for the

deepest sort of connection, even knowing that

connection is impossible.

Up here,

where there is no day or night,

only awake and asleep,

where there are no seasons,

only pages flipping on a calendar.

It’s only me up here,

me and all the things

I can say I want,

tell myself I want,

that I can pretend to want. 

All I have to do is watch

the universe

pass by,

push buttons and keep logs,

and dream about everything

that awaits my return

and I hope 

I want what I tell myself I want.