My father is somewhere, smoking his last cigarette. Scrubbers will take the air, and we’ll all breath it again. He calls it a celebration. There’s irony in celebration by slow suicide. There’s irony in the cargo bay, too. No tobbacco there.

The glass – I call it glass, a fond memory – is finally clear enough to see outside again, and I see it for the first time. Earth. It looks like Earth, at least. But the continents are different, the oceans and seas in different places. Three moons, not one.

I’m old enough to remember. Those born aboard are lucky to be young enough not to have to. I can compare the glory of that planet with the barreness of this one. Oh, the forests we’ll have to plant. I’ll die long before most of the saplings can even be called trees.

We won’t be able to fish for generations. No cold mornings off the dock with tackle and a rod. Fragile ecosystems don’t like fishermen, enough of a testament that things resent their creators.

I stare at the planet ahead of me. I will call it home for the rest of my life. And it looks beautiful from up here. Those young men and woman, they are blessed enough to believe the word “home” when they say it. Youth, beauty, optimism.

But I’ve come too far from the womb of my former world. The word will wring from my lips hollow.

There’s talk of landing, settling. Many eager to leave the confines of the ship and get a taste of fresh air. There’s excitement in the room, and for a moment, the scent of smoke and nicotine. The scrubbers adjust. The nostalgic smell is gone.

I close my eyes. Don’t want to land, not really. I will, but not so soon. I want to close my eyes and imagine glaciers and the Yukon. Everglades. Africa. The Pacific Rim. Familiar tides.

I want to sit here for a while, sit here and pretend we had never left.

Irony is, there are traces everywhere. These cigars. That store. This food. Today I went browsing through my banking transactions to make sure everything in order, and there they were. In order, out of order. Blacks, Toronto. The Marche, Toronto. NYF, Toronto. Somewhere, the pictures of Toronto. The courthouse. Nathan Phillip’s Square. City Hall. Starbucks. The Edge studios. A grille, steam, melting snow. Transit fare. The subway. Chapters.

I can never go back to those places, not now, not ever. The intrusion would be sacreligious. The fibre of my being is knit into those places.

Starbucks in the Meadowlands. Books of art. One shelf of poetry. Pablo Neruda. Paul Auster. Robert Frost. Aerial pictures. Paris. New York. A child’s first steps. A park above the city. Love. Opening the passenger door. Love. Leaves. The waterfront. Staring up at stars. A cup of tea, hardly touched. Perfection. A beach less a beach. Shells cracking beneath feet. Futures. Rocks piled on eachother. Frosty grass. Cold hands. Smiling.

The driveway. Breath white like bones. Snow squealing. A kiss goodnight. Adios.

Tonight I went to Laserquest for member’s night… played a few good games. Maybe some of you know what it’s like to not be able to sit around. Got to do something. Write. Run. Tag. Whatever.

I’m working on a short story right now. It’s really going to suck due to the fact that I’m not a great writer. The only things I know to write about have already been written in various CountryWestern and Linkin Park songs. On the other hand, you can read my words backwards and become a well-adjusted individual with hardly any problems.

The phone isn’t ringing. I want the phone to ring. Anyone. 905 615 8247. It’s a number, and it works.

I haven’t gotten any emails today, except from my former accountability partner. That felt good. “Yeah, hi. I hear you no longer need my services. That’s too bad.” Well, that’s not the way it was, but that’s the way it sounded to me, filtered through a rather backwards head. It didn’t feel good, much like saying the same thing at the same time. You can give me back my stuff and we can read eachother’s thoughts. Wow, I have a useless superpower. They should tattoo a big “L” on my forehead and call me Loserman or something.

I ate a meal tonight. It was horrible. I’m thinking of going IV from now on, because everything tastes bad. So hooray for today: I’m feeling a little acerbic. Don’t come over; I bite.