The Paradoxical Man

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Space.

It was all Albert Rosen had seen for the last century and a half, but it still astounded him every time. One glance outside the viewport of the ship, one glimmer of an alien sunbeam, and his breath was taken away anew. He’d witnessed the grandest of sights in his time on the watch, inexplicable moments that defied description. Wonders of celestial light and darkness had moved him, reduced him to shuddering tears and reflections on mortality and afterlife. At times, when staring into the cornea of a weeping nebula or transfixed by the collective luminosity of passing galaxy, he almost believed he was in Heaven. But he knew Heaven could never be so isolated. So alone.

The remoteness was stifling. He would teeter on the razor’s edge between sanity and madness, imagining he was all there was in that void, one infinitesimal speck of life in an infinite stretch of death. The universe had no use for him, no endearing ache for humanity’s mechanisms. It went on, cold and unfeeling in its awe-inspiring orchestra of cosmic phenomena.

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