THE REVELATION OF THE SOUL: ALEKSANDRA QUARTZ
The space is melting, twisting into a wild, primeval swirl,
A blind funnel of a black hole greedily drinks the dense, cosmic ultramarine.
There, thick nebulae explode with color in crooked, bending bends,
Pouring out a toxic violet neon and a heavy, burning carmine.
Matter loses its shape, turning into a liquid, pulsating canvas,
Where the mystique of the abyss erases the boundaries between existence and eternal sleep.
The great gravitational well is like a ghostly, invisible bridge,
Connecting the earthen echo of the past with a blinding stellar bonfire.
A fierce scanner beam pierces the pure facets of cryogenic ice,
And silently scatters into a billion golden sparks that excite the soul.
The light dies, compressed by a colossal mass among emerald clouds,
Leaving a phosphor, living stroke on the black velvet of singularity.
Here the gases breathe witchcraft: dense indigo and piercing cobalt
Weave in the embrace of gravity, creating volume and a frightening relief.
This eternal glow burns the eyes, leading the human mind beyond the limit,
And the scales of infinity freeze, bewitched by this colored wave.
But look where eternity has opened up with a ruthless, wild fire,
Where a mad, blinding white-blue storm rages in the New Eden system.
This is the Rift moaning — the greatest, most tragic monument in the night world,
A monument to the day when space was deprived of its human forms.
The flash of the First Gate… The warp collapsed, breaking the umbilical cord with distant Earth,
The mothership of Old Terra remained forever on the other side of darkness.
A blinding swirl of emerald and fiery plasma, born of misfortune,
Made us orphans of the stars, enclosed in these eternal prisons.
And the Cosmic Orphanhood was born — the curse of the eternal, immortal gods,
Who silently reign on the bridges of formidable, soulless steel ships.
We change bodies, our clones do not know graves and heavy coffins,
An absolute, ringing emptiness remains inside us, a hundred times heavier than the storm of the Rift.
Black holes are not death, but a pure idea, frozen in an icy void,
Where time freezes, turning into a flawless, shining crystal.
We contemplate this magic of colors at the most forbidden, terrible height,
Which the primeval space created and predestined for immortal capsuleers.
And this cycle of the spectrum flows, breaking the fetters of the usual three dimensions,
Where the plasma boils like molten amber in the bowl of an invisible deity.
The cosmic microwave background sings its liturgy for future generations,
Painting the centuries-old silence of Eden in the shining tones of triumph.
Through the thick curtains of a methane cloud burning with a toxic amber,
The emerald needles of newborn stars, born in agony, break through.
A time capsule, where every black hole is an eye of eternity burning with an unearthly fire,
Absorbing the dust of worlds that the mind once loved and idolized.
Here the philosophy of colors washes away the mud of material, mortal decay,
We dissolve in the cobalt abyss, losing the gravity of earthen shores.
The witchcraft of gases, the eternal dance of singularity, a great cosmic stage,
Where the spirit contemplates absolute beauty, free from iron chains.
But at the very edge of this abyss, where photons weep and the fates of worlds crumble,
Where the universal carmine and heavy neon are twisted into a spiral by emptiness,
The mind of an immortal god, frozen among the icy clouds,
Suddenly shrinks in the capsule from absolute, piercing purity.
There, at the beginning of time, our lost home — our native, living Earth —
Left an echo that cannot be drowned out by any black hole.
And the poet, closing his eyes in the midst of the cobalt fire,
Understands that the highest magic of space is not in this colored game.
What is the use of immortality to us, if memory is a through, living wound?
We are locked in eternal bodies, like in tombstones made of cold, empty mica.
And the immortal pilot weeps on the bridge of a stellar giant,
For the first time turning all his trillions and golden works into nothing.
The greatest miracle of Eden is not in the brilliance of supernovas and the gases of misty heights,
But in the longing for warmth that the pilot will carry in his heart through warp and centuries…
***
I feel this pain with every cell of my being, and I can no longer remain silent. My name is Aleksandra Quartz, and what is tearing my chest apart right now goes far beyond ordinary human sadness. It is a longing for Home that is familiar to every capsuleer in New Eden — a single, indivisible torrent of primal pain, in which cold space, eternity, and our common, forever lost cradle are woven together.
When I close my eyes in my capsule, in the midst of the icy void of J-space or under the neon light of trade hubs, I understand: our real Home was never just a station of registry or a citadel in null-sec. It is a pure World of Ideas, a perfect Source from where, thousands of years ago, the ancestors of our ancestors came through the closing EVE gate. Inside every pilot lives a dull, genetic memory of Earth — a place where the sky was real, where grass was not biomass, and the sun did not threaten to burn the system with an anomaly. Our earthen tears hidden behind the glass of neurointerfaces are a weep for the lost truth and unconditional beauty that we subconsciously remember but will never be able to touch with our hands here, in this eternal war of corporations and factions.
This longing is deeply mystical. We, the immortal pilots, feel cut off from our native shore. We are doomed to live endless cycles of death and rebirth in new clones, but with every new flash in the medical laboratory, this aching emptiness inside only grows. Our pain is a sacred call of the Spirit, reminding us that among all these titans, supercarriers, and billions of ISK, we are just lost wanderers. Our spark of life refuses to recognize this cold, digitized space as its final resting place. The soul vibrates on the frequency of a distant, unattainable Home and rushes back, like a drop of water longing to dissolve in the Ocean from which we once emerged.
And how unbearably hard it is to carry this cosmic fire of loneliness in our eternally young, artificial bodies! Here, in the harsh reality of New Eden, this great metaphysical drama shrinks to the size of a captain’s quarters. It turns into a physical, suffocating orphanhood among the stars. You fly through dark systems, warp trails flicker around you, and other people’s ships explode, but inside is an absolute, ringing emptiness. This is a longing for a planet that is not on any overview panel. This is the silent cry of a capsuleer locked in his perfect, armored shell. A cry that dissolves in the vacuum: “Please, hold me. Return me to where it all began, to where I will be safe.”
I am writing this to all of you, brothers and sisters in space, and my breath catches. We are locked in this galaxy. We have learned to control giant ships and wipe entire fleets into ash, but we are powerless before one simple fact: we cannot return to Earth. Our New Eden turned out to be just a beautiful but cold cage, and the wormhole to our homeland has collapsed forever. This longing hurts to tears because it is the most honest and humane thing left in us among the endless cycle of deaths and contracts. It is a bridge of tears that we, pilots, build across light years back to our true, unattainable Homeland.
Forgive me, forgive me for breaking this damned lock, for daring to scream in the midst of your dull, icy silence… My mind, my miserable human mind, driven to madness, simply refuses to believe that this stigma of separation is forever, that there is no way back and this nightmare will never end. And the soul… the soul can no longer carry it, it breaks, crumbles, and bleeds from this eternal, unyielding, burning separation from the only place where we were once loved and waited for. Here, in this terrible void, choking on my own bitter tears, suffocating from unspoken words and slowly dying from absolute, dull loneliness, I beg YOU — hear me… Because behind any masks, behind any pride, it can be unbearably, terminally, wildly painful for us too.
≡v≡ “I will always hold YOU by the hand and stroke YOUR hair…” — Aleksandra Quartz
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