I’ve felt the visceral pull, like a magnet outside my front door; it makes me a gunshot of me.
I barrel toward its prongs, but its exterior can easily can withstand my velocity. I imagine leaving a mark on the positrons, changing the minds of negatives as they work together to chain me.
I imagine this, but my journey ends like an explosion in space, trees falling in empty forests. Not a soul in the universe left to witness the supernova I know has to happen if I’m to become a sun.
I apologize to populations who have had to live in darkness so long. This would be my acceptance speech if what followed had changed a damn thing.
If the bullet I became was not caught and bent on steel; if that collapsing habitat meant a new one would grow in its place and people could name it on a map once again; if a single planet in that solar would have access to water, earth and air because of my inner fire.
But instead, it’s my concession.
Lying on the floor, I became another case in the long line of wasted metals. I’m strewn across the ground, in a way that would make you think of the racket I must have made falling down. It must remind you that not everything able to be recycled and put to good use is.
Buried in the soil, I was one with the worms who wouldn’t understand complete ecological destruction if it severed them in half. The surface is a cemetery for dandelions, a graveyard for trees, a mausoleum for all the creatures that could make sense of its grandeur, perfectly preserved in mists by the constant moon.
I’m a solar system lost to interstellar space. Gas giants in the orbit of black holes, my failure known throughout the entire universe. A thought experiment in existence that lacked the experience to implement evolution, succumbing to the gravity of nebulae no sentient life form was forgiven enough to find.
The bullet. The forest. The world. All pulling me to something greater, so I can experience it long enough to mourn.