There are days and there are nights. Times meant to measure one’s potential, the ability to reach the most efficient escape velocity. What it takes to break free from gravity, the seriousness of it all. Afraid to tumble back to Earth. Dreaming calculus equations, fantasizing new laws for mechanics. Words like atoms on an electrified grid. Joy discovered in prolonged periods of instantaneous accelerations. The mind’s kinetic energy behind the stars sparkling in a just now opened eye.
My daily thoughts as propellants. Providing thrust. Moving away from past atmospheres until memories start to sound counter-intuitive and then, infinitesimally small. Eventually missing, telescopically speaking.
In the morning, feelings equal to energy at infinity. Searching for a planet. Mapping one’s sentiments into empirical cosmic systems.
A slight light steadily plotting its course through heavens, predictive science filled with awe: To be finally found to have many moons.
But in my brain, amorphous solids, the recalculation of their mass turning up nothing, if not a lack of observational errors. Flawed competing theories sure something has gone amiss. My distance from the Sun, the absent term in the equation. A simple matter of finding one’s melting point, I think. Tons of material complexity, the topography of magma and craters finding its right degree of viscosity, molecules bored with bouncing around.
Yes, a life-time of numerical simulations has confirmed it: My world’s axial tilt has kept, after all, a steady angle. And that’s pure happiness: A tidally pulled habitability amid torsions of forces. So no need to theorize existence.
On the shadowy side of my satellites, there's an array of seasons getting ready for a surface area-to-volume ratio yet to be devised. It might only be algebra to some, but for others, it's the sheer brilliance of geometrical bodies, their molten interior like an inner pole star to steer by. A magnetic affinity granting levitation characteristics. Rings of dimensional analogs deflecting solar winds, a wondrous, albeit very technical way to remain stable against the wobbling nature of sublimation.
I have never encountered poetic fallacies, only scientific ones.
Laolao
My daily thoughts as propellants. Providing thrust. Moving away from past atmospheres until memories start to sound counter-intuitive and then, infinitesimally small. Eventually missing, telescopically speaking.
In the morning, feelings equal to energy at infinity. Searching for a planet. Mapping one’s sentiments into empirical cosmic systems.
A slight light steadily plotting its course through heavens, predictive science filled with awe: To be finally found to have many moons.
But in my brain, amorphous solids, the recalculation of their mass turning up nothing, if not a lack of observational errors. Flawed competing theories sure something has gone amiss. My distance from the Sun, the absent term in the equation. A simple matter of finding one’s melting point, I think. Tons of material complexity, the topography of magma and craters finding its right degree of viscosity, molecules bored with bouncing around.
Yes, a life-time of numerical simulations has confirmed it: My world’s axial tilt has kept, after all, a steady angle. And that’s pure happiness: A tidally pulled habitability amid torsions of forces. So no need to theorize existence.
On the shadowy side of my satellites, there's an array of seasons getting ready for a surface area-to-volume ratio yet to be devised. It might only be algebra to some, but for others, it's the sheer brilliance of geometrical bodies, their molten interior like an inner pole star to steer by. A magnetic affinity granting levitation characteristics. Rings of dimensional analogs deflecting solar winds, a wondrous, albeit very technical way to remain stable against the wobbling nature of sublimation.
I have never encountered poetic fallacies, only scientific ones.
Laolao
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