The way an astronaut looks at earth through a window.

They want me to write, words like wind to a kite. Words like stars above night. Like lenses. And how the entire atmosphere is one. A planet rolls like eyes from just how much we can not. Not even thinking how we’re sticking out sideways until eyes stray earthly boundaries and look back at us like we were just a neighbor or something. Home. And across the street from home. Are an infinite apart. It would take the geniusest of us to begin imagining where to start to get back over there without leaving here behind for good. The whole rest of the neighborhood. All of our property values tethered like the cords that hold astronauts. The air they breath has gone further than we ever will be, and fed the minds and bodies of far better women and men than you or I. I want them to fly. And they want me to write. And we all need one another the way ships need anchors, the way we use each other like mirrors. Seeing a little bit of ourselves in someone else may be the only way to see it. We can tell people ten thousand times the earth is round and flying but we will not feel it until we see looking back at ourselves like we were across the street from our own home planet. Then we will fall in love with it. The way astronomers stare at stars through lenses. The way an astronaut looks at earth through a window.

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