Depth of Space With No Romance

Depth is what I see in the darkness, an inestimable, interminable depth.

In the holovids they always tried to sell the majesty and adventure of space, romantic notions of being a sailor on the new ocean of discovery. I should have known better.

My freighter churns through the emptiness, one lonely soul and supplies destined for an outer arm colony on board. The view outside is blackness, that inky mass of nothing punctuated by faint points of light. On a good day I like to imagine that one of those points is home, a distant beacon of connection and meaning.

Most days I remember the assorted pricks and losers I left to join the fleet, where I discovered a brand new and exciting assortment of pricks and losers.

Now I make my solitary way through the heavens, just me, cargo, and a half-lifetime’s worth of regrets. I figure it’s half, being hopeful and all that things will improve. They may not, as heralded by the chorus of alarms that breaks into my melancholy wondering.

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