Sometimes I dream that the sunlight that passes through the filtered glass on the ship, that washes over me in the mandated light-exposure sessions is flowing over me in a beautiful meadow. That I'm laying in the grass in some secluded glen, while the sun passes behind dappling clouds, warming my skin and gracing me with a pure relaxation unlike anything I've ever felt.
But eventually I remember that I've never seen a meadow, or even grass. That my parents never saw a plant, and neither will my children. That in this dark space, between systems, the sol chamber is the closest we will ever come to that dream.
Some days it is enough. Some days it is a great sadness.
Some days I curse my ancestors who inflicted this life on me with their decision, and wish I could go back in time and tell them that any life is better than this sterile wasteland between the stars. No matter what they left behind, it can't be worse than this monotonous existence of artificial nothingness.
Some days I imagine what worlds my children's children's children will walk upon, the first humans to set foot on new worlds outside our home star. I dream what wonders they will see for the first time, and how the sunlight of that distant star will feel on their skin. Something I will never know.
But it is fun to dream.
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