Sci·am·a·chy noun [sahy-am–uh-kee]: an act or instance of fighting a shadow or an imaginary enemy.
I wish I could walk on the veil between sunrise and dawn. I wonder what it would feel like if space was a hollow sphere trapping Earth inside it. If only I could hang myself upside down from the top of the inside, staring at Earth from above with tendrils of my inky hair merging with the clear blue of oceans.
I wonder what it would feel like if I could bungee jump from the top of the nothingness that’s above me, and lose myself between stars, constellations and billions of light years racing through celestial glory.
What if the meteors swimming in and out of sight are firestorms fueled by our empty wishes? What if the blinking stars are silver hearts pumping cosmic energy into our dying mortality?
Maybe the clusters of stardust and comets roaming around galaxies are lost phantoms, the only remnants of our short lives.
And if it’s true, that we’re all made up of stardust, then I can’t help but wonder: How could something so pure and divine turn into a sad, nasty excuse for a life?
Cassiopeia is shooting arrows at my armor.
Shadows scurry toward me, ready to fling me into galactic wheels.
Andromeda is tossing pangs of fury at my quasars.
The shadows wrap themselves around my limbs, stay glued to my muscles and seep into my veins.
I am paralyzed.
Supernovas vacuum the stray crumbs of my willpower.
I steal a glance at the guardians orbiting around Mars, letting the hypnotizing dance of phantoms swirling around their master soothe my nerves.
Cepheus smothers me with colossal clouds.
Light echoes, breaks and shatters in a downpour of starbursts.
Cryptic whispers find their way to my ears.
Maybe I should let them surrender me to a black hole.
The minutes keep rolling and tumbling and tripping over the threads connecting what’s left of me.