“All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you; the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was.”
Her soul slipped into a spacesuit of patched-up hopes. She looked into the vacuum and muttered, “If light-years can be measured in teacups, I’d be drinking my way up into the stars.” But her dreams are nebulae, or even galaxies, away and no amount of caffeine can bring her there.
Her heart nestled in a bed of sewn-together prayers. She closed her eyes and whispered, “If light-years can be measured in keystrokes, I’d be writing my way up into the stars.” But Words, no matter how strong, may need more fuel from her to bring her there.
Her tears were kept nowhere; they clouded her eyes. She blinked them away and said, “If light-years can be measured in saltwater, would the nights I spent crying not be enough?” The Universe went on spinning, trying to ignore her despair.
Perhaps light-years can be measured in how wide you can stretch your heart’s threshold for pain; in how many lash beatings your soul can take or in how many buckets of tears you can keep at bay.
She knows she doesn’t know. She’s more than a sightless Spacewalker but the starshine from faraway, perhaps, is enough for her to walk blindly, for a while.