I keep a part of myself far away. To get there, you have to break the constant drag of gravity and rise up into the air. Float through the shifting winds and mist of the lower sky and swim the clinging wetness of the grey winter clouds. Lift through the cold, thin upper atmosphere and escape to the dark void of outer space, the nothing that holds the universe together. Tumble long years past asteroids, sister planets, former planets, out past the solar system to the undifferentiated vastness of the Milky Way. Leaving that turning spiral behind, spin weightless for longer than you can fathom past the sparse but infinite scattering of indescribable wonders. Keep going until you come to an undiscovered brightness, a small barred lenticular galaxy with no human name. Deep inside, near the bulge of old stars that hides the voracious event horizon of an ancient black hole, there is a large, white star only a few million years from the end of its main sequence. Around that star, in a long, slow orbit, I keep a part of myself floating in the quiet stellar wind, far from the influence of visceral life and vital concerns. Sometimes, when things are complicated or troubled here in animal world, I spend as much time as I can out there. It’s impossibly peaceful, dangerously so. An animal like me can only abide a fleeting exposure lest I forget how to participate in this organic agitation of chemicals we call life. I have to remember to come back, to attend to all these moving parts. Still, you might catch me from time to time looking as though I’m not listening. I might seem to be far away. That’s because I am. I’m farther away than you can imagine. I apologize that I cannot bring you with me, but don’t worry. I won’t be gone long.
Hello, friends. I hope you're well.