Partly Cloudy, 64°
I could look at the night sky forever. Its beauty, mystery, and unfathomable size entrance me. But nothing is more exciting than the feeling I get when I look up and remember, holy fuck, I’ve been there before.
Probably 90 percent of the time I glance up at the moon I stop and think, woah, I’m Neil Armstrong, the first guy to ever reach it. The guy who drove the little car up there. That is wild.
Even when I’m not looking up I still sometimes remember that, people made, from the resources of this earth, machinery that lifted off the ground, flew into the air and beyond. And I rode that shit to space. Damn.
When I’m walking down a busy street or in a crowd, I’ll often remember that probably none of those people ever went to space. Take how many times you, the average reader, has gone to space, add two to that, and you have my count. Please tell me that blows your mind. Because it’s objectively incredible.
The other day I saw a hawk gliding high above me. I immediately thought, the hawk can’t even imagine flying all the way to the moon. No bird could even get to space. I did both those things. By 1969. That’s amazing.
So I hope you step outside on the next clear night and look at the sky. Lay down on the grass and count the stars, find the constellations, or just stare at the moon. And when you do, maybe you’ll remember that, holy shit, Neil Armstrong went there one time.
