They say you can’t hear anything in space.
On a good day, I hear many things looking out into the void.
I hear my heartbeat like a thunderstorm in June. It is the envy of the entire Atlantic Coast. I hear my organs pump and my skin rub up against the suit and exhalation of breath and the release of skin from eye crease sweat when I blink. On a bad day, there are noises all around in the form of beeps and boops and manic alarms.
Today is a good day.
A whispering, low beep plays its monotonous melody in the background. I float above it, waiting for the chime before the intercom speaks. I wait for the winds of passing nebulous gas, the rolling bass of rotating moons and planets around me, the light timpani percussion as rolling debris or asteroid rock tap on the space craft.
It is not quiet in space. No, it is a symphony of strange.
I creep up the east wall and peek out the porthole. Earth is spinning softly on its axis, a sleeping baby in a bassinet. My fingers graze the glass and on a bad day I can hear the pain in my heart echo out in every corner of my brain. Hope drowns it out on a good day–it swaps out the somber string notes for a crooner’s brass, a song for the morning and the discoveries I’ll bring home.
It is not quiet in space. It is loud and beautiful in my madness.