Oxygen is running out and I'm stuck on the moon.

After I've sat in the shower crying for a good hour - a mistake I make everytime - I went to bed.
And guess what, I can't sleep. So I just stare at my starry ceiling, the dimly glowing, green shapes reminding me of my childhood, happiness, showers without tears, only bubbly shampoo flowing down the drain.
I see everything clearly in my mind's eye: the hot air, the damp windows, water gets in my eye, the ceiling light blinds me-
no, that's not my bathroom, that's not the ceiling light. That's not earth.

It's dark. There's colorful dots, they are changing colors, they swirl and dance around me, and I'm here. I am here, on the moon. I've never felt such peace before. I feel calm and carefree, a cool void touching me.
I can't breathe.

There is no sound. Absolute, dead silence. I don't know when was the last time I heard not a single noise.
It is always filling my head: the heater, the freezer, steps from the upper floor, cat purring. Shower water splattering down. Breath.
No silence.

I didn't know I missed silence so much.
Silence is important for all the deep, dark thoughts to really flood in and not be scary anymore.
They're quite good company. In space. In dead silence, when nobody is watching and nothing happens when you philosophize about the reason of existence and the ability to think and a soul sitting in an alive body of dead things musing over the universe. Multiverse. Omniverse.

Breath.
Dark shower thoughts.
Except I'm on the moon. Some moon. Not the shower.
Oxygen is running out and I'm stuck on the moon.
I can't breathe.

I can't breathe, but that's fine. I don't need to breathe. It's alright if I die. I don't really care.
I don't need to be alive.

I don't think my brain can handle what my imagination can: eternal space without end, growing even wider and emptier and fuller of life and deader every second that will never return ever again.
I feel like I'm in a huge hall.
Hall of stars, my own galaxy. Shimmer. I am a shimmer in the center of my galaxy,
I AM GALAXY.

I become a part of space, I taste like wet stone and frozen water and salty heat.
I smell like fresh wind burning your nose with ice cold air and the reflection of the starry night sky in a rain puddle.
I look like a mess, and I am beautiful.

I feel my toes and fingers shrink and grow hot. I curl up into a ball of heat. I burn inside and implode on the outside.
I am a dying star. My galaxy has existed for a quintillion years and it will exist for another eternity.
I am a dying star.

I open my eyes in a flash. I'm seeing stars. Above me, on the ceiling.
I realize I don't want to be a dying star.
I want to live. I want to shine. Or be a shimmer, at least.
Save my galaxy.
The light in the middle can't go out, can't die down.

... wait.

I am the light.
I don't want to die.

I am thinking in silence. And I cry in my shower. I feel.

I am alive.

And I sleep under the stars and the moons and the planets of the universe.

Multiverse.

Omniverse.

-
Dec 26/2020