47/52 Orbital (Transmission: __ )

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My brain sends signals. Messages undeliverable. Or are they received and I’ve miscommunicated that even?

Beep. Beep–

Sounds, abounds, embedded upon a plate of spinning symphony make there way to, into the unknown, awaiting to be picked up. A record to be played from the launch of a hopeful fate. May it ever be received, unbroken, and understood of how (such a thing is to be played and) its intent. A whirling orb in desperate need of understanding, of connection–to be received–to be understood–to be sang.

I joined academics in the exhausting excitement that was the 1970s, a continuum of hyper attention to hyper space. But also of mathematics. Of study. Of oddities, endless and possible embrace.

I joined studies in the retention specifics of math, aiming towards the codes of such a profession that in wartime, cracked.  War. Always. Outwards, beyond that which is in our minds. Those of conflict, all too human when humanity is lacked. Codes, each are. Codes I cannot understand for the capacity of understanding them–these humans–at times, I, myself, lack.

Beep. Beep.

I peep into the stars, the cosmos, and there: peace. Hope. All coincide to make me hopeful for a future of symphonic beings unlike our own. For, in a youth obsessed with wild dreams, comets and space most outer rim, when the children before dreamt of hopeful, nonsensical magic, of Comets and Cupids, I dared to imagine the possible. Through the marrying of the space and filled spaces, I existed. I gravitated to.

Beloved, and upheld to be not only possible but my universal truth, I imagined the cosmos. I imagined the record spinning, and playing to my heart that at the very least I would be finally understood as applicable, if not esteemed in computing the travel of a record through and through. For being responsible for the record playing on, I would. I would not fail. I would compute. And for this, I would sing.

Beep. Beep. Notes in tune.

Data I can input. With that I am good. And perhaps, through operating this machine from my childhood, of helping its final mission, I too will commune. I will speak, be heard, be admired, perhaps, and be listened to. I will successfully transmit as humans do, or should: humanity.

Beeping on into the stratos, far beyond the rim of the galaxy, our own community, a small spec roves on awaiting to be received. I transmit the data for this to continue, for I await, too.

We await together, to be heard, to sing out. To humanly compute.  Two best of friends, a galaxy apart. Two hovering genius’, hoping for the ability to simply talk. Two, and together, neither are so alone.

Beep. Beeping on. Keep–Beep. May you be heard. Beep. May you be listened to. Beep, for me and for you.

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