There's the whole vast inky black nothingness of space, spreading out in all directions. Nonexistent. Inert. beautiful in its simplicity of being quite simply nothing, just barely dusted by a speckling of bright stars that seem to shine all the brighter in contrast to the all-encompassing murk of eternity.
From this great distance… everything is seemingly still. Dead. Motionless. Like a single, perfect snapshot of the universe itself. There to look upon under whim and yet utterly untouchable. Remote. Mystical. More or less due to it—or rather everything being so, so far away… that distance itself seems to simply give up and fade away. leaving anything at all attempting to cross the system fair and square, in one of those old fashioned ways…
warp drives and motors and solar sails, radioactive and atomic engines and especially those delightful, impossibly imprecise, incredibly hectic SOs'
To be left behind quite utterly in the face of progression to new space travel techniques…
Ah those dilation pendulums. Those pincer-aorts, those fascinating time rotors and TARDISes now (unfortunately) extinct, and those hyperspacial alignment initiator grids. As well as the ancient, huge, powerful, now quite fortunately utterly dismantled SolR'hyders that—being huge and primitive and their race being probably the most hypocritical race alive-second only to the daleks—initiated supernovas for the purpose of use as fuel. Using up one star per the laughable distance of four thousand hecti-hops. The approximate span between the Baleen and Andromeda galaxies.
And even so, despite all of time and spaces apparent state of UDLe (ie utter-devoidedness-of-life). One needs only to look closely to notice the thin, rugged film of life coating so many of the seemingly uninhabited planets like an especially stubborn mucus layer. Often enough exactly like a mucous layer. Sometimes no more—or, for the matter less—than a mucous layer.
A pity so few ever bother to look into it closely.
The alien life. Not the mucous. Unless the mucous were alien. Hardly anyone with anything resembling a shred of sanity yet remaining would totter about for all their life looking at normal mucus.
Oh but there was one man who did.
Again. No at mucous. At planets, and their inhabitants. At all of time and space. And everything.
He was the last of his kind.
A murderer.
An ancient man who had lived more than a thousand years.
Gone thru a dozen lives.
Suffered a dozen deaths.
Had seen things.
And created things.
And destroyed things so beautiful they boggled the simplistic human mind.
And thru it all retained the spirit of a child. If an impossibly old one.
Which is to say-not a child at all.
But rather an individual willing to open himself heart and mind to the wonders of the universe.
To learn.
Explore.
Suffer.
Fall.
Stand up and totter on into the dark mists of knowledge and obscurity alien to anything living. Or—for the matter—dead.
He lived for the sake of beauty.
Through pain and despair and hatred and nostalgia and sheer frustration and fury he lived for the sake of living.
Because he was the Doctor
A man who hated endings.
This popped out of me at six in the morning. My apologies. It's more of a ramble than anything else. I honestly have no idea what it actually is, even. if you think something doesn't make sense I SECOND U ON THAT
plz...still review?