Planet after planet, all more appealing yet less inviting than the previous. The turquoise and lime cut off communication. Later on, a yellow and purple planet, much unlike any I’ve ever landed on before yet welcoming all the same, invited another space craft before mine had time to land.
An internal emergency provoked a hiatus, during which finding a forever home was the last thing on my mind. Almost a year later, a crash landing on an inviting planet healing from natural disasters shed light on a perfect fit, but the landing dock disengaged my ship. Communications from the planet went silent for several months for self-preservation from a widespread virus.
When communications reopened, an invite to land was just moments away. The locals were inviting, curious, open. But the invite always felt moments away, then the moments turned into days, weeks, months. Perhaps an invite was never coming. And it left me thinking about the last home I had.
Luscious, haunted forests; clear, bottomless waters; majestic, unsettling mountains; bright, deceiving days; dark, mysterious nights. Despite starving me, it will always be one I’ll want to revisit. Not even a perfect fit can distract me from that.
June 16, 2012