You don’t know what it’s like. You’ve heard about it. You’ve studied it your whole life. You think you understand it. But until you find yourself out there, surrounded completely by the blackness, you can’t truly know it. You don’t know how you’ll react. It’s possible you may even be fine. But if you’re at all like most of us, at all like me, you’ll crumble under the oppressive weight of eternal night.
How can I explain it to you? It’s impossible. I thought I knew it, thought I could hold it in one hand, examine it, admire it, and when I got bored with it, I thought I could blow it out like a candle. But you don’t extinguish space; it extinguishes you. I’d heard the stories from others, just like you’re hearing it from me. And I know what you’re thinking now. The same thing I thought. I’m too strong. I’m too smart. I won’t let it get to me. But it does anyway. It creeps up on you when you aren’t looking. You think you’re fine. You think you’re handling it. And then you just break down. For no reason. It overwhelms you, the darkness, and the loneliness, and the nothingness of space.
You think you understand great distances. You think you understand the physics of travel. You think you understand, when you first retreat from the sun, that you won’t see another bright light for millions of years. And you’re right. You do understand it. But you still don’t know it. You can’t feel it properly until you’re out there, surrounded by nothing but blackness, hungering for some spark of light like you’ve never hungered for food. You’re starving for it, and you know you’ll never taste it again, never feel its warmth on your cheek, never be able to look down and see your shadow on the ground.
The blackness envelopes you. It breathes you in, and when it finally exhales you, you’re dirty. You’re black. You have become the night. You’ll always feel it, deep in your bones, the black places of your body. You’re a shadow, even when you return, you’re nothing more than a shadow.