by Filippo Rossi
Once I met a traveller from a distant star who said:
Looking out upon the lone and silent dust that stretches far away, away into the forgotten regions of the universe one feels dragged, by a mysterious force, into an abyss of deep sorrow. The colossal wreckage which I observed was all that remained of ancient worlds, of stories never told, of galaxies that had once pulsed with energy and of creatures who had once roamed the surface of the planets they treasured and called home… All is gone. Annihilated by the secret forces of a universe still shrouded in thick mystery, it has all moved down the meandering stream of time for us never to see again. I could not help but wonder and imagine a space traveller like myself looking out on a similar spectacle and wondering what unrecorded race lay in those debris that, unbeknownst to him, were once the Earth.
But suddenly the distant apparition of a grain of light from the birth of a remote star, made me understand the magnificent stupidity of my sorrow. As I returned my gaze to the dust imperceptibly clustering under the tender force of gravity I realised with awe that all the information that had once been piled high to form the colossal monuments of a distant past was not lost but merely transformed into the primordial state of things which I observed.
Now I too travel home through this cold and silent desert. Like that traveller of long ago I wonder. Could these debris be those of the planet he called Earth? Could it possibly be that the barren wasteland he had described to me has slowly come together for a new life of which my home, in the province of the Lupus star, is a part of? There is no way to know. All that is certain is that now, as I look out of this porthole, grain by grain the fine dust moves closer and closer together; once more dragged by an irresistible desire to never stop and stand still, but to instead always be engaged in the perpetual motion which drives the constant change that we are all a part of.