Milana,
I feel vacant, hollow. It is as if a part of my essences was lost in the jump to this system. I am half convinced that my soul is adrift, floating in the deepest parts of space, that I will always be incomplete. You may think me a tad dramatic, and perhaps I am so, but I cannot seem to get over the vast differences between this place and home. It is as if I have started an entirely different life, as if I am someone else.
The star that Attranor orbits is the same honeyed color as the sun on Earth. This evening I climbed to the roof of my bunk building and watched as it dipped below the horizon. I closed my eyes and imagined I was home. It is summer here, the month of Noa and large clouds gather to the west of the city, pregnant with rain.
Do you remember when we were young and would lay in my yard as the dark clouds rolled in? It is forever imprinted in my mind. The emerald of the lawn smelled sharp yet sweet, tangy and alive. The grass here (if it can be classified as grass) is orange and fuzzy, and it smells slightly rancid. Beyond the city, where it is not regularly trimmed, it grows five feet or higher. There are places where it completely covers my head and blots out the sky.
Those summer days used to stretch out like a cat, sunning itself on a window sill and the weeks blended together seamlessly into each other. We would meet every day at the barbed wire fence that flanked my property. The thunder would roll in, and its deep tenor became the background music to our friendship. I miss those days with a fervor born of knowing they are no longer mine to have.
The summer here is harsh and wild. The heat billows in, heavy and damp, fogging the early morning and the only respite is in the cold, metal buildings of the university. The hours drag by, and I find it hard to concentrate.
Talna and I snuck out last night. There was a feral wildness in my heart, and a yearning to feel…something. She took me to one of the local bars that serves the military sector, and we sat in a dark corner and studied the patrons. The men and women here are different. Their eyes are hard and their faces lined with concerns I cannot imagine. There were whisperings of unrest, of disputes along some of the edge systems, of war. Have you heard of anything?
It has been three long weeks since I wrote last, and still, I have not heard from you. I hope that you are not in trouble. I hope that you have not forgotten me.
Valia
Tibetan Lemonade 