If I had my own spaceship, I would travel the stars. I would be the first to name each one. Name them something beautiful. Something that captures their essence. Their terrible destruction. Their creation. Their color. Their hue. I would look at all of their little ones, and I would name them too. Maybe, just maybe, I would find one of blue.
On a blue world, I would try to make a home, but there are many blue worlds. I would have to visit each one.
I would stay for a little while, to get to know the land, the sea, the gas. I would taste the blue. Drink it in, whatever it was made of. I would become the planet, and it would become me. Then I would move on to the next ball of blue.
I would have to visit them all, it is the only plan that will do.
Eventually, I hope to find one that is interesting. One that has more than swirls, more than clouds, more than pressure and violence. One less than serene. It would need to speak to me, and I would speak on to it a language that can carry all possibilities.
At night when I rest, I hope I can still see the stars. Still see the things that I have named and have yet to name. They would cover me like a blanket, keeping me warm and holding my secrets. I would tell the stars stories and sing them songs from my new home. I would tell them how they all came to be, and why they are all set up so high in the sky. I would tell them their purpose. These things I do not know, but I would tell them anyway. Every night it would be a new tale, a new purpose. Every now and again maybe I would strike at some truth, and they would smile to themselves. They would not tell me of course. That is not their way.
I would watch as the other nearby balls of rock and gas wandered through the sky of my new home. I would tell them stories too. Stories that would make them sound grand. Stories that would make them out to rival the stars. They would know that I only try to build them up, only try to make them happy.
When my blanket would drift away, I would talk to my home and its neighbor star. I would tell them the stories of their birth. Tell them how they came to be. I would explore. If a place were to be my real home, it would need to have plenty to explore, more than just blue. Browns and whites and grays and reds and maybe touches of green if I can spare it. I would find these places and I would have them named too. I would give them a history. I would tell them all of the great things that took place in them, on them, and under them. I would tell them about creatures, and they would laugh.
And if I made creatures I wouldn’t give them names, and I wouldn’t tell them stories. Creatures are terrible listeners, but I would watch them. Watch them as they became parts of the world. As they crafted the world with little tiny trails and homes. They wouldn’t know I was there, but the land would tell them of the stories I once told. The land and the lights in the sky would entertain them with tales that they could pass down amongst them. Stories that would last through the creatures beyond the places that had given them, and perhaps even outlast the lights in the sky.
If I had my own spaceship I would take you there, little one. I would take you out of that plastic case. I would take you away from all of the tubes and the pumps and the liquids both hard to spell and pronounce. I would take you away from all the anxiety and fear, and I would bring you to a place filled only with stories. If I had my own spaceship, I would bring you to a place that we could call home. If I had my own spaceship, I…