The world spins endlessly, drifting throughout the void of space. Clinging to its back a tiny little thing, useless and bereaved. It has watched the sun and moon count sixty years and, in that time, joy was fleeting in the wake of life.
When it was six it wanted to be Buck Rodgers, tilting at imaginary wind mills in the cosmic depths of space.
When it was sixteen, it wanted to be on the Atlantis racing around the globe twelve hundred miles high. It wanted to be free of the slings and arrows, high above the world. It longed for nothing more than peace.
When it was twenty-six it turned its mind towards music and wished upon a star to be a famous musician. To stand shoulder to shoulder with his contemporary greats. Neil Peart, Justin Hayward, Jeff Lynne and the like. He wanted to tell his tale and make lots of money.
When it was thirty-six, it wanted to be the hero. To find another to live his life with in harmony and when trouble did arise, he would ward off the bungled and botched, standing tall against the sounding fury and when the sun fell upon the day, its companion would stand, hand in hand, warmly watching the sun fall below the horizon.
When it was forty-six it wanted to reproduce. It wanted more than anything to have a small piece of itself to grow and eventually become something more than its doner. It wanted to watch this little offspring grow clumsily, as it once had, become a full-grown thing and venture off on its own journey. Things never really work out when left to their own devices.
When it was fifty-six years old. It looked around and realized that it had become obsolete. All its vast knowledge and all the king’s men meant nothing to the world he now lived in. It had nothing of use to offer. It was error 404, non sequitur, a duncel to the globe on which it sat.
And now it is sixty years old. All that was precious to it has returned to the void. It is alone in the universe that frankly, did not even know it existed. It pines away now, content in its misery, unwilling to change, unwilling to care, wondering all the time… why…
Why is it here? Why is it still alive? Why wont the cosmic order that created it, let it die?
Why, why, why, always why…
And the sun will rise and the sun will set and the stars will fall from the sky.
And the moon shall shine with no regrets, with the thing looking up asking why.
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