Distance From the Body

Short story

I was trained to record conditions, not feelings. That distinction mattered early on, when the mission still had edges. Now the edges are gone.

The suit registers pressure changes before I do. It compensates automatically. If there is damage, it is already responding. I log this because logging is required.

Time behaves differently here. Not incorrectly—just without reference. I sleep when the interior lights dim. I wake when the hum shifts pitch. I cannot say how long I have been awake.

The system insists I am functional.

I was selected because my vitals remained stable under prolonged observation. Because my responses were calm. Because I did not ask what would happen if I stayed longer than planned.

I remember being told that distance would feel expansive. They used words like perspective and clarity. What they did not say is that distance also reduces urgency. Nothing feels close enough to require action.

I still think of home, but the image no longer arrives intact. It breaks into components: light through glass, the sound of footsteps, a voice calling my name without expectation of response.

The suit adjusts again. I do not feel it happen.

Sometimes I wonder if I am still moving away, or if the system has simply learned how to keep me suspended. The readings suggest motion. The silence suggests otherwise.

I am not afraid. Fear would require a future that demands preparation.

What I feel instead is maintenance. A continuous readiness that has nowhere to go.

The mission parameters have not changed. Only my sense of where I end.

I log this because I am still here. That seems relevant.

This text accompanies the video work MISSION STATUS: ONGOING