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Rated: 18+ · Book · Experience · #2327260
Cancer. Medical greed. A Space trip, seeking for the void, and for what's left of life
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#1079342 added January 2, 2025 at 9:00pm
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Chapter # 1. Lost SET - 182
Lost
         SET182



COMMUNICATION
.

#111-01-00-10-01


         
My Directives...
         I childishly nod my head, in complete back and forth motions. In absolute affirmation, in total conviction and trust in people thousands of miles behind me. I do so with such boundless abandonment. To orders conceived under a bright lit office table light, in a work kind of scenario.
         Later they had somebody shove it into my chest, a week before liftoff. "Directives" color coded and all inside one big binder. Crystal clear, my orders are to sleep... "Sleep! Of all things.", this voyage is an endless loop of bullshit.
         Since the day I was told, by a pretentious Doctor, behind his huge pretentious desk, the cancer they were obligated to leve in one my lymph nodes had reappeared in my brain, three tumors; obviously that's when all my hope wandered off somewhere.
         Back to the vital "Directives". According to these doctorate level stooges eight hours are defined as a healthy sleep cycle according to this "Circadian Rhythm", deal. I lost my precious Circadian Rhythms a while ago, I slept, for six years.
         Why keep with the maintenance of my body? Lack of self-love perhaps? Just tired of the upkeep of myself for a bleak future, then death.
         Forty-nine-years to finally, ungracefully, collapse into a pile of skinny twisted limbs, unkept long-hair, just a keeled-over human. One big pile of what life was unable to gnaw, bash, corrupt... what it couldn't kill.
         I picture my face, all pulled into the least of flattering and forced impression of a maimed Zombie.
         "Space Zombie!".
         A dumb looking one, unbecoming of who I was, a crooked smirk pulled down by the spaceships´ floor, with one eye showing pink one side of my face drooling. Into a viscus pool.
         Right there, in that back corner! Rigor Mortise will finally make that damn thermostat irrelevant. It´s the end of our quarrels.
         I´ll take any victory as of recently. Even if it´s through my expiration!
         I can see my painfully arched spine poking out my paper-white back, I won´t be human in people´s first impression. More of a chubby faced, his t-shirt safely pinned with his participation ribbon, kinder gardener's conception of modern art.
          Years, then became 6 coasting at mind numbing speeds. Piercing the darkness for years now, I set out intending to follow my orders, finish my task, if I find an asteroid or run out of fuel, I´ll just drift on, aimless, to ultimately expire at some point.
         There’s just nothing out there, through the spinning windows.
         I’m finally spinning, just spinning in a "Tin-Can," like"Bowie"! Through the nothingness of the vacuum of space.
         I was just another forgotten human on the planet, just a weed-reeking nobody, a bum. So many people pass through our existence, faces distorted by time, smells, people's voices, each in some corner of our lives they resemble seasons in a way. Parents die, some fine day; friends fade off into their own self-serving visions of what their lives should be, lovers find better lovers, enemies and even children they all, just forget you, in the end.
         Cuddling up close to my illness, breath close, trying to just "Be", alongside my rampant, undiagnosed mental-illness issues. The best I can. Free base cocaine, alcohol by the buttload, a hypnotic drug known as "Zopiclone" and since I'm dead already why not cigarettes too.
         I use a mask with everyone, I even have a charming character I play, to deal with other humans, become irrelevance personified. I died back there in 2013.
         I’m finally lost. Computer, still insisting on my rest. Not knowing that on earth days can bleed into the next.
         Savagery, begins in the mind, besides the ache, the total
clandestine of my missing soul, constant state of wonderment, "What do I look forward to? What lifestyle could I even aspire or even do? I just got married for the second time.". Will I be able to find a career that is aware time is running out. Meaningless days, rolling one over the other.
         I think of home, it’s never a clear idea, vague smells, comfort, a place of the soul hugging smell of homemade cooking. All those absent treasures, but with the wrong people.

         These, subversive words...


         The wet kitchen-rag spilled over a rusted clothesline. Country life in its´ trivial details. I can´t stop staring at it in my mind, despite the pain of nostalgia. A black dripping shape against a barely alive, pink and reddish sunset, as I hear myself repeating in my head "I want to go home...".



Transmisión- 001-01-01-01-11-00-01



         Gliding through a pitch black, terribly infinite nothingness, weightless, it´s been days, months, years, perhaps. Too far, I went too far out. Radio barely receives random bleeping. Too far Mike, for a quick instance I disassociate from reality, I´m suddenly standing on pristine white sand, squishing between my toes. A swift breeze blowing from across endless dunes making the solitude cut deeper.
         “You can´t be more lost... " A girl´s voice eerily said with the breeze. Then in an echoing and mocking, loud tone "Uuugh! WANDERER!”. Azure-sky, the simplicity in the brief moment made me sure she spoke truth.
         "Too far," she insisted, the child´s voice now coming from some, unpinned point, far away now, “Estrangement, Michael! Solace, isolation...".
         “You went too far!" She repeats herself into distortion and stops. suddenly I
found myself alone again. Slowly spinning somehow, deep into the indifference of falling apart.
         Time has become dreary, blurred in so many tones over who I never wanted to become, and now who I am smeared somewhere in all the chaos. Day after day is just the same. Time charging its price of a life you just might have wasted. All in good intentions, the best intent, honest soul trapping dreams, and the very passion of my life.
         All tumble down a fiery black trench, smoke bleeding from the dark chaos, glowing coals, the bitterness of waste that was going on, the land is dead, black branches reaching up through a sour earth, sorrow like the dust, everywhere. Nothing in my life was ever made into a reality.
          But, yes it was some sort of delirious trip, dreamy, fantastical, and terribly sad, hurtful, pain, mostly filled with abandonment, my mom, my friends, women, my own family and recently an estranged wife with no explanation available.
         I see my fingers, now slim and somewhat wicked covered with some kind of gray matter. It´s progressively becoming hard to recognize myself. I want to go home, Im just another stranded spaceman lonesome and longing...



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