throughout my life i've hoped for spaceflight, the science fiction kind. i've been reading about all the lunar landings planned for 2023, and what i feel isn't hope, but maybe a slight easing of my anxiety: i delude myself into thinking it matters, that we'll still be around on this rock in a meaningful capacity in a few hundred years time; that this is the start of something, that we'll have lunar missions, martian missions, establish drilling in the rings of saturn.
i've always had this great affinity for the sci-fi shows about drifting through the blackness of space. a single person, or a handful of people, on a ship just barely keeping it together. as the planet burns, as we're awash in catastrophic weather events as the outcome of the last century becomes clear, i keep thinking about what it would be like to wake up, day after day, in that sort of scenario. check the systems. eat cold, pre-packaged meals. coming back in my mind to the emptiness and the stability. the thought of simply surviving. the comfort of quiet.