The Tyranny of Gravity
The mirror is a place of meeting and of reconciliation. Who is this looking back at me? It isn’t the image I hold in my mind.
I lean closer, nose to nose. The skin is scarred and sagging. The eyes make me uncomfortable. They tell silent stories of war and death, of shame and apathy.
The lines deepen. Ancestral. A village near Siegen. Miners and laborers who will follow the work to the British Isles and finally to Appalachia and the Great Plains.
There are traces of Dacia. Farmers and skirmishers and communists.
Countless lives, with untold stories of love and pain and fear. They say time heals, but I call it a killer. Plucked from the void, embodied, and forced to watch the clock.
Each second a little death.
Lately, at night, I’ve been spending time staring up at the sky. Pinpricks of light from stars long dead. The sheer scale of space tugging at the edges of my sanity.
Sometimes it feels like I’m falling up, the tyranny of gravity forgotten.