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Thanks for the comments on yesterday’s posts, I’m sorry that I haven’t replied to any of them. This morning I feel blank.

I thought a while back, about how sci fi on tv and film always seems to have a moment of complete solitude. Aloneness. Someone stands distressed on a post apocalyptic landscape, or in a spaceship, watching silent light years stretch ahead. It’s always them and the sky, them and the vast emptiness of space. There’s always a black hole or a wormhole and an imminent threat of plunging into it; a vast unknown and no hope of return. There’s the poignant departure from the home planet, instant wistfulness and the possibility of loss.

On the flipside of all of that literal alienation, the hope and excitement of the journey, the fierceness of battle and the tender passion of love under fire. Sci fi bristles with technology and thought experiments, but the best (and the best trash) of it, expresses human nature on the edge, at its finest, lowest and loneliest.

Endings are never real or realistic. There are happily ever afters, Thelma and Louise/Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid brave deaths, and sometimes time travel or some other option of immortality means there’s never really an ending at all. Ancient tropes in futuristic conditions. Escapism with baggage.

All of that, I think, is what we are.

I hate it.

Here is a sweet picture with pretty words.

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