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The name Solar
I have a recurring dream of being trapped inside a spacecraft, hunted by a creature comparable to a Xenomorph. The ship is dark. Glistening geometric ridges run along its surfaces, offering just enough structure to navigate. Every space is tunnel-like, carved with triangular patterns, the walls textured like matte, polished stone.
The journey through the chambers of this floating Oumuamua is unforgiving. Survival requires all my senses. The sun casts a dim light, enough for partial orientation. But being hunted by a perfect predator means abandoning overthinking. Rational thought slows the body. Instinct keeps it alive.
Today, life is increasingly mediated by systems that mistake abstraction for understanding. Metrics replace judgment. Models replace experience. Instinct is dismissed as primitive. The unconscious is treated as an error state. Everything that cannot be systematized is ignored, deferred, or erased. As a result, places that allow for ambiguity, darkness, and slowness disappear. We need places that take seriously the Earth as more than a resource, technology as more than progress. Places that make room for the eerie, the obscure, and forms of experience that resist translation. This is not nostalgia. It is orientation.
The sun radiates incomprehensible energy into the void. Life emerges. A formless goo on a rock finds balance against entropy. Asteroids strike. Adjustments are made. Life persists. Humanity spreads faster than it understands itself, powered by tools it treats as neutral but are anything but. Technology accelerates imbalance when divorced from ecology, ritual, and restraint.
The sun remains indifferent.