A slice from else along

I sit here in the small room which has become my home for however long I pursue this path, light of the star that until recently anchored me in life washing over this vessel in ever-younger waves, reaching back in time as I am drawn out in space, and notice a shift in my writing.

My journal is changing as my old world fades. Not out of contact by necessity but by choice. Captain's choice, and Coruscant has no need of chatter now the system is so far behind, and my journal grows stilled. No longer a voice speaking to those I know, it is turned inward, speaking to myself, perhaps at long intervals squirted back to the web of what was known, but truly my outward voice is being silenced. Captain will want to vet my writings anyway.

My journal is changing. Perhaps I am changing. We have not even been anywhere yet, might be months and months between, and more between things interesting, but still. Is this what it is to be suspended in this void?

I am flying and I am touching the spaces between. Ephemeral fingers brush the texture of existence.