The winter of 2021 and my senior year of college, I had never been so forcibly alone. We couldn’t leave our five-person pods and class involved sanitizing your desk and sitting yards away from your peers in a mask. I barely spoke to another person, and being on Earth didn’t feel particularly great.
The only photos I have of that winter are an odd collection of mirror selfies taken in my senior housing unit bathroom, pictures of the frigid Minnesota prairie taken quickly before shoving my mitten back on, and more mirror selfies taken in the new science building.
It was a vast, angular, monstrosity, and I felt safe in its echoing, sterile halls and floating stairs. I got into the habit of working there late into the night after the building had closed from the outside. I would go in the bathroom while the security guards did a walk-through kicking people out. When they left, I would return to my seat, the only person in that cavernous spaceship.
After a few more hours, I would trudge across a barren campus swimming in grimy yellow light coming from low-hanging clouds and light pollution. And that whole time, I was listening to Daft Punk’s Discovery and hearing outer space inside my head. It was synthetically melancholy and euphoric in equal doses, and it comforted me.