Eau de Nil

Eight orbits around the Sun have passed since your voyage departed from this beautiful solid that glows blue. You sailed far afield in a long and dreamless sleep. Your heart was yet unchanged. You didn’t seem perturbed about the turbulence and turmoils coming your way. I was confused. I wanted to know why you left. No letter. No markings. Not even a single word was uttered. It may be that you fled from the fear of the dark, only to find it there before you, and nowhere else to fly but that part of the world.

Your melancholic atoms disintegrated, decayed, and underwent a permutation to form the next generation of substance. But some of them escaped in the form of heat, travelling to the edge of time as intervals of vibrating energy, scattering in every direction. Restrained by a cosmic speed limit, they radiated through the bleakness and barrenness of the vacuum, an inconceivably vast arena devoid of matter. They crept through the boiling and bubbling soup of virtual particles coming in and out of existence—ephemeral—where the undying corruption of shade and murk blew all the candles away until the light has been off. I heard you call my name—a faint voice in a swirling vortex of nonexistence, like the sound of a rippling water in a long and endless chasms, tunnels, and caves that don’t exist —echoing, yet quickly fading—no sign of help and the way is shut. Though your name is engraved on my pulsating core, I’m afraid I cannot find your trails, for the unknown is wide and homeless for the frail. A darkness lies ahead of you, and out of it few tales have come. Farewell!