Paper and Pen

Michael,

 

Forgive this crisp page and well-formed script. I regret that the present has made ink and paper quite ineffectual, and the only way I managed this note is through a temporary repurposing of the ship’s computer. In the event of a complete display malfunction, data is printed. Do not worry my dear, they won’t mind. This is important, and it pained me to stray so far from our oath that night by the surf, when we found that bottle. I often think about that night, dark as it is here, only alive. We walked the beach with our treasure, fantasized about what it contained, what tragedies or secrets, until we couldn’t stand it any longer and broke the thing. Inside, lie a note written by hand, in the second person, to themselves. To live a good life and all the wonderful things that will befall them. You read it under a lamp, with the night surrounding us. I can still hear your voice. You took my hands then, and vowed to only write love with pen and paper, to form the words by hand, to put your soul on the page. I laughed, and jokingly agreed. I can see you turn in my mind, your hair a wild dusty grey, and you looked out into the ocean, silent.

“One day, you’ll understand how important a piece of paper can be, Arjun.” You turned toward me, took your hands and cradled my face, and kissed me with an unusual sadness, which left me confused, but knowing you’re a man of depth, excused it as an expression of romance. I often go back to that beach, my mind now a playground for mistakes and regrets.
Soon, the ship and its contents arrive in a new world. I wonder if you’ve followed our trek across space, celebrating with Earth the shocking success of it all. So close to our destination, and not a single thing to go astray, not a plan to go unfoiled and no malfunction or errors to arise. Even scientists used the term “miracle” and of course, Musk, the arrogant bloke, is being praised across all seas for reaching Mars unscathed. I hope I won’t alter the bright mood felt in the ship, this feeling of unrestrained human ingenuity.
The quiet here is unnerving, but appropriate. I fancy that its punishment by the Gods of the old world I left, for the love I neglected, for curiosity taking precedence over abundance.
The others find the darkness difficult to understand. I find it magnificent. Being a more nocturnal creature, you often teased and named me the “master of darkness” and compared me to some animal stalking in the night. I remember being tangled in your arms, our bodies seemingly absorbed into one another, primitive lust and passion fueling our rhythmic movements. Entangled in a gossamer thread, as you described it. I took scissors to our web. Cold metal for the warm, moist pressure of you, the life of you. The life of everything. What is left of a human without life?
There is no forgiveness out here, no story. There is nothing out here.
Lately, during our time for pleasure, I often find myself in the observation deck. Space is viewed on all sides, and I float in solitude. The others know to not disturb me whilst in this state, and I use it to imagine. The stars remind me of the night we met. I remember standing at the edge of a pond, in the middle of the dark woods, the colored lights and music dancing behind us. The water was so still that it reflected the sky. I told you it looked like a hole dug into the earth, a portal into another world. You replied that only if one was so brave to climb in, perhaps they’d find a utopia to free humanity once and for all.
“You won’t find that here,” I said with a sick authority. “Only up there, can we start anew.”
You then stripped naked, to the cheers of those around us, and jumped in.
“A spacer eh? Earth still has a few up her sleeve,” you shouted, backstroking across the surface. “In fact…” and laughed as you picked a slimy piece of vegetation off your shoulder.
“There are leeches in there! You must get out, really, it’s not safe,” I replied, and this elicited a response of boos and a great splash that soaked me.
“Look! You’re already half-way there.” You giggled like a mischievous child. I remember the moon on your head, the light reflecting from blue eyes.
“Bloody hell. Fuck it then.” I took off my shorts and fur jacket. I tentatively stepped in.
“There, not so bad, right?” You swam to me, and stood up. I was taken aback by your grace. You looked like some spirit, a myth.
“What is your name?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Michael, and who do I owe the pleasure?”
“Arjun” I reached out my hand, and you took it so gently, as if it were breakable. Twirling my fingers through yours, I can still hear your voice so clearly.
“Arjun,” you said quietly, as if tasting it. “May I kiss you, Arjun?”
We ended up walking away from the noise and crowd to a dark corner of the forest. We made love under those ancient oaks, the ground our bed, the stars our canopy. I’ll never forget your words.
“The stars inspire,” you whispered.
“No,” I paused. “They beckon.”

I left you home. The seduction of exploration proved to be too great. The cost is too great.

The room I sit in is comfortable, Michael. It’s the only place on the ship with gravity. Our recreation room, to ease the mind. I sit here with your stone, my only object, and a leash. A dog’s leash, I took from our botanist. A little stone, from you. A leash from a beloved dog. And gravity.

I love you. I’m sorry.