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Life in Space

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My life is made up of hours,
which are made up of minutes,
which are made up of seconds,
which are made up of lies.
I’ve built an existence on the ashes of my past personalities,
and the pile keeps growing larger and larger until
I’ve rocketed past the stratosphere and into space,
where I lay curled into a cold, shivering ball,
watching the distant stars and wondering if they could ever be friends with me. Sometimes, when I’m feeling optimistic,
I’ll make myself a crown out of stardust and
dance by the light of the rising moon
and pretend that I am beautiful.
Other times, when I’m not feeling so content,
I’ll hide in the shadows of the planets,
running and running to outpace their rotation so that I remain
forever on the side furthest away from the sun.
My favorite of them all is Pluto,
because I can relate to that nondescript sphere of rock.
I, too, know what it is to think myself a planet,
special and important,
only to realize that maybe I’m not so important after all.
I don’t know if I decided this myself or
if someone else decided  it for me,
but it seems that now I am obsolete, useless,
the stuff of old textbooks.
I am forgotten by those I love and
by those that I thought loved me.
Not least, I am forgotten by myself.

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