Papa says my problem is I think too big.
Space is boring. The universe, repetitious. You can wander forever, as we have, and not see anything new. Stars are stars. They are born and die and the universe forgets them, if it ever noticed. Nothing is fresh in eternity. Nothing changes in a closed loop.
We float, looking for the perfect spot for a new world. He points to planets I’m allowed to practice on, and I build on them.
I’m fascinated by trees. Of all the things to put in a world, I find trees the most interesting. They reach for more than life allows, always straining for a little extra room. I plant them down and watch them grow, and imagine that they must miss me, terribly, to pull at the air the way they do.
So yes, I build my planets improperly, the trees so oversized that they curve around the earth and tangle in one another. I can’t help it. A branch grows and sprouts a smaller branch that sprouts a twig, and always, in every iteration—big and small—they reach.
I have a problem with scale, but so do the trees. That’s what I tell Papa. We want more than we should.