Scent of Roses

As I see myself falling around a star which name I ignore, I fear for the light shinning on my eyes. Blindness comes and goes; it spins its own negativity. The smell of roses lingers in the air: the spacecraft seems abloom with petals, red buds that are nothing else than the decompressed suits of my companions, those whose journey was suddenly truncated by the gravitational pull of the star and its effects on the already too compromised hull of the craft. I had just the time to stretch my limbs inside the suit when life rushed through multiple punctures in the hull, a stream of vanishing love, and despair, and desire, and, towards the end, death. Stagnation appears in the shape of small glittering sparks on my retinas, in the ever increasing difficulty to breathe anything except the scent of roses. The star revolves as I free fall through the remains of the craft which was used to conquer worlds and galaxies and, from now on, will only conquer oblivion. The light of the star, the anoxic stimulation of my eyes, all work towards the goal of easing my last minutes away, mashing my thoughts into an unidentifiable mass of incoherent near unconsciousness. Flowering redness brings a perfume that should not be here, the perfume of a thousand roses sickeningly squashed to death by the hasty emergence of a star at the precise location where all the navigational charts only displayed the emptiness of space. As I slowly ebb myself away, I steal one last glimpse of the star and I realize, as the minutiae of small details shakes itself loose from rational thought, that it is not a star after all: it is just a rose.

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