A Recollection of an Imagination of Space

When I was five years old, I believed that I was viewing the solar system right before my eyes. I had rushed down to the Subway with my father on the way to a friend’s birthday party and was awaiting the oncoming train. I turned my head to peer into the dark tunnel from which the train would soon emerge. As I observed this dark black abyss — so rich and suffocating — I was lured into a state of imagination. I saw before me the entire Solar System, each of the planets dancing in their awe-inducing natural synchronicity. As I turned away to look at my father, the train arrived at the station — effectively erasing all signs of the Solar System’s terrestrial visit. This memory has always confused me. I never shared it with anyone, believing it to be a special fraction of time that only me and the Universe were aware of — our special secret. Though millions of commuters pass through the New York City Subway stations every day, the Solar System had calculated the exact moment of my arrival such that only I would view this moment of its angelic descension to Earth. I believed that by keeping this moment a secret I could shield it from all of the rules of reality — effectively maintaining a bubble of serenity and fantasy which allowed this impossible event to in fact be possible. I have been forced to keep this bubble sheltered further and further away from the surface of my mind as I grow further and further aware that it evades all reason. However, I hope to maintain this bubble in the farthest crevices of my mind so that I never lose hope in the possibility that we are in fact the residents of this Garcia Marquez-esque reality.