Galileo

Standard

My Dearest Galileo,

 I know you. I recognize those brown pits of emotion which look at me, and leave me without any interpretation of them. I know the heart which resembles a wormhole in its ability to spew out galactic debris with no warning. We’ve always shared the capacity for blunt communication at the expense of tact, but I’ve chosen a different language to inform you of my atmospheric balance, and its need for tranquility.

I beseech you to disregard the gravitational pull you may feel when you are in my presence.  If you’re travelling an elliptical circuit, and nearing my planet’s atmosphere unsteadies you, then I implore you: move on. Live your life, full of your dreams, your goals, your successes.  If I have at any time brought you to the zenith of emotion, maybe my words could convince you to come back down.

I’m not heartless, just independent. I’m self-aware enough to realize I cannot handle my orbit being destabilized by the gravity of other planets passing by. In the name of grief, I’ve pushed the noises of the world farther away. It’s this centrifugal force which keeps me whole. It is not to be confused with egotism. This is my life. I don’t have the space for a relation-ship to come and land. My stoical exterior was broken by a meteorite recently, leaving a crater which I doubt will ever be filled in. The most I hope for is that over time this crater will be smoothed over. It’s too early to know if I’ve survived this astrobleme or not. My seismographs left for their Christmas vacation a day before I needed them.

I am beautiful. My presence is unfair to your insomniac tendency, Galileo. It’d be easier on both of us if you would put down your telescope. Think of me less often. Maybe to withdraw my paralyzing beauty from your susceptible eyes, I could hide behind a mirror. I would refract self-knowledge upon you. You would realize there are cataracts in your eyes, which are causing you to see bridges which aren’t there. Cease your salacious gazing at my corona. It’s God who crowned me with brilliance and glory. When you become blind you might realize it was a bad idea to stare at the sun. When helmet streamers colour your sky, protect yourself from the hazards of creation, by calling out to the Creator.

I know you like me. I understand. I applaud your excellent taste, but I don’t have the space for you. Go get your own space. This is mine. This centripetal force could be construed as self-centeredness, but it’s not. It’s self-preservation. For a while, I will remain at my apogee. I need to catch my breath before I traverse the spangled tapestry of relation-seeking.

Galileo, I implore you, don’t let your heliocentric view blind you.

Sincerely,
Miss Taken 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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