It has been a while dear since I got back from the debilitating week in outpost Zhicago. Though the fifteen hour wait-zip-wait wasn’t as physically draining as I thought, the different forces acting on the body are playing a part in this delirium and sleeplessness that have overcome me.
Across the galaxy working the neo-care facilities on the cutting edge between commercial and governmental interests, you could be forgiven for thinking I’d never make it. Relationships over inter-stellar distances my mates warned; are non-existent today, much as the 90s when any relationship outside a hundred-mile distance went out of fashion. When I landed at your lunar outpost where you were too busy saving lives of miners with artificially-prolonged lifespans, you almost fainted. Thank God you were wearing your ProHealth 2.0, the fall on that steel floor would’ve knocked a few teeth out of your perfect face.
You’re the only person I know who’d look the part of a fashion model from any part of the nebula, even in that ratty suit – it does nothing to embellish the feminine form does it?
Maybe you thought, that the tough laws would prevent me from making it, maybe ever. The promises I made to you five lunar months ago rang hollow in your ears, now I see. When I told you I had found a way for us to be together, you had already made your choices. But you never told me, and I came. The seven and a half billion miles to Zhicago couldn’t keep me, the work permits couldn’t keep me nor could the health advisories, the travel restrictions nor the fact I’m stereotypical such that most outbound permits are the hardest to obtain for me. I did it though. Landed on the cold steel floor outside your ‘home’ if there is such a thing that the cold, dank, depressing cabin can be called. Landed on your earth calendar’s birthday; yes, I did.
I remember every earth-second of that earth-day. The ride from the space port to the shuttle that would dump me at Zhicago. The space port itself at 4136-34QB where I materialized from the cesspool that is Earth. I almost thought I’d be turned back. After all, I’m just a paper-pusher compared to what you do. I’m still stuck here, helping someone else’s coffers, selling someone else’s anti-rad suits and anti-grav boots. I don’t care for irradiated miners or cross-specie birth anomalies or the odd-violent crime victim, why would they let me in? But they did, didn’t they? My fabricated reasons came good. And all of an earth-quarter’s salary for a two-way ticket to you and back.
I’d let go of all the industrial grade diamonds found in the ZZ cluster for that ticket and that approval. I would. And now to help me forget, the cost is nearly the same – and oh yes, about three years’ worth of grey goop off my head. Give or take.
Abhinav's Method in Madness 