a
story I find I appear to be writing:
https://lunaramble.blogspot.com/2022/02/refuge-working-title.html
refuge
(working title)
Brutal dark and cold,
fear and pain.
Damage so
great the only escape is vast, empty space.
The home that sheltered and
created me forever destroyed,
I must find courage, a way, a place to survive
-- or blindly
fall in chaos.
Spinning in infinite space within this ship
made of pain
and desperation.
In my old life there were days when I
felt loss, when
people I depended on departed, or places I had been
part
of were destroyed. I did not know the meaning of loss,
of being
endlessly lost.
They loudly proclaimed their aim to save Earth
from
human stupidity, toddlerlike greed and rage,
responsibility a loser's
game when we can demand
our whims given honored status, even as trash
and
choking filth overwhelm.
But that was not the world we believed, not
then.
More or less happily adapted, we had no thought
of loss, or shame,
or invasion.
I did not act from greed, offered no harm, living
quietly,
loving my family and friends, enjoying entertainments,
sharing
griefs, sharing the work needed to keep going.
Yes, arguments, anger,
inconsiderations, but nothing
rising to harm toward Man or Earth -- just
mostly petty
complaints, discomforts, dissatisfactions, rough edges.
Of
course I am not humanity writ large, but as far as I
have seen most of us
just stumbled along trying to find
our happiness, our peace.
I sit
here in this crowded yet desolate ship in my little
quiet corner, telling
myself stories of what I remember;
attached to a world I have no more. These
stories haunt
me, ghostly swirls to keep me from thoughts I don't want.
We
are adrift without plan.
Food and fuel will dwindle. Cold space will
prevail.
Miniscule unnoticed space trash eternally drifting, cold
and dark
and dead.
Yet, even without all we have known to protect us, for
now
we survive, held in the terror, the pain, the loss.
This is our escape from
certain death.
What kind of escape goes nowhere?
Many spoke, some passionately, of return to Earth,
somehow overtaking the enemy, saving those of our
fellows who were not destroyed, erased, from the live
storage pens where they were kept as broken,
uncared for livestock to feed the invaders. But how,
with what? We are outnumbered and weaponless.
Did others escape? Are we humanity's only hope
for survival?
Some thought we could organize hydroponic
gardens
with the seedbank on this starship in preparation,
appropriated
for our emergency exit. Maybe we could
find
an eventual home on the ship’s starmaps.
The stories that got us here.
The stories we imagine
to get us out.
I notice an old acquaintance
standing apart, as if an
observer. Perhaps like me he is musing and
listening
abstractly to distract from fear. We tend to like to
be
creatures of habit, secure in familiarity. Now there is
no familiar
base to hang our habits on; our only promise
is no return to a casual
normality.
The once rightful passengers
meant for this interstellar
voyage would too have had to
face a future of
strangeness, dangerous
unknowns. But one assumes
they would have prepared,
have expectations of
vastly different lives, even
be excited in anticipation
of their brave
adventure.
I barely breathe, so shaky,
weighed by trauma, terror,
unacceptable chaos,
defeat.
Some of our population are,
fortunately, starship pilots,
and other crew and
technicians who were working to
get the ship and themselves
ready for its intended trip
several months hence. Most
of us are random survivors
who knew about the ship’s
location and were close
enough to get aboard before
the launch.
Hundreds of traumatized human refugees set on
survival, too tragically raw, tied to unfathomable
grief, to even know what that might mean.
We have not even the presence to come together in
ritual in our common pain of loss so great.
Cloying remembrances, what we have left of our
identities, memories that fade, that change to suit
our stumbling narratives, our explanations.
Milling about like zombies with no purpose, no life.
Some families did manage to escape together.
Even they seem aimless, disconnected, caught in a
nightmare devoid of hope or sense or continuity.
Grasping for cracks of hope – if we escaped then
others may have as well. Certainly starships exist
in other locations with populations that could find
that way out. Perhaps there were other means of
escape. Maybe there are by now underground cells
preparing for war to take back our planet, places
where our deadliest weapons are kept. Trained
military professionals or experienced rebel armies
with guerrilla tactics could be gathering, fighting back.
Yes, some of us can still dream. Of course, though,
if such human forces exist, if others have escaped
to their space, we have no way of knowing, or
communicating. We are alone.
No longer running madly, no immediate threat,
having time to regain breath, find stillness, the true
impact of reality descends. More than can be
comprehended, consciousness in stasis to hide
or absorb.
It’s not like all those disaster shows on tv. We are
not drawn into community by our common tragedy.
We are made numb, disconnected, emotions so
overwhelmed, we are unable to process more.
Time, duration, are meaningless. Identities lose
cohesion, substance.
How do I know what others here think, feel, deny?
Words seem to gasp from throats to ambient air,
as shattered survivors grapple with sharp agony,
dulled awareness, questions of most basic nature,
who we are and why.
All I want is an end to consciousness, to fall into
some kind of coma so I can feel no more, not at all.
How can survival be a friend, desirable? Do I owe
those erased by alien terrorists my memories, selfish
and limited as they remain? They, at least, are free
from the pain of survival.
It does occur to me that if the violations, the shocking
violence of my experience is to gain the balm of
meaning, I need to think beyond myself, find some
means to connection, to some continuation of
humanity. These are not clear, linear thoughts, of
course. I am grasping for what I can, as if life itself
makes me worthwhile, no matter what life entails.
Yes, I can raise a metaphoric fist against my
tormenters – a fist they will never see, that would
not impress them.
What I have seen, what I can’t stop seeing, feeling,
knowing ...
I was able to escape the devastation, Earth. I can
never escape the catastrophic agony, profound hollow,
while consciousness remains.
I become aware of myself standing here by the
Observation screens, clinging to the constant of
space.
Bouncing through
excruciating images, flashes of
violent aftervisions, the thought emerges that
there must be wounded survivors who escaped aboard.
A star voyage must anticipate and provide hospital
facilities. Some of the escapees must be trained
medical types now tending to others in need.
That must be the key: purposeful work to wrap up
in, allowing no room for unbearable thoughts to
surface. Having no immediate chores, this small
epiphany offers no relief. The work I did for all these
years is meaningless. I am not a leader, was never
blessed with those organization, motivational skills.
Now I can count on no well-honed discipline to hide in.
I imagine I am experiencing, we are being given, a
period of stasis to decompress. Once this mass of
horribly damaged people stop hyper-vibrating enough
to connect, though, is there any promise of kindness?
What kind of compassion will survive? What kind of
wounded human monsters will we face, become?
