Published in
3 min readMar 17, 2016
We Should All Give Thanks To Jupiter
I lie my head on my lover’s chest, listening to the beating heart. Engrossed in its rhythm, dull and constant under my ear, I wait for pauses and cuts. My breathing suspended, I listen — for missed beats, a quickened pace, a flatline. Within the continuous cadence, I feel fragility. The balance of the universe, condensed into the lifeblood of a single human being.
♃
I came to truly grasp the nature of fragility by learning about the universe.
In particular, about Jupiter; or the “Gas Giant” as it is sometimes referred to, because of its predominantly gaseous composition. That in itself came as a surprise, insofar as one can be surprised by the molecular makeup of a planet, with everything about our solar system being thoroughly enthralling. I suppose, until that point, I’d presumed that they were all made of rock; Venus as impenetrably solid as Neptune, Saturn as sturdy as Mars.
As it turns out, though, the planets are composed very differently to one another. Mercury, for example, has a steely exterior and molten centre, as opposed to Uranus’ icy core. Mars, as we know from its nickname, has a red outer appearance, and endures ruthless storms. Saturn is famously circled by rings, fragments of ice and dust looping around it for lightyears.
There are other distinctions; not just between Earth and her celestial brethren, but between those planets themselves. Time follows different rules in space. Neptune’s days are 8 hours shorter than ours; by comparison, a single day on Venus equates to 243 by Earth’s standards.
They don’t all have Moons, either. Or, some have substantially fewer than others. Venus, our sister, has none, whereas Jupiter is governed by 67. It has already been predicted that, of Mars’ two moons, the largest will die. Somewhere in the black void, when life as we know it is far behind us, Phobos will be thrown off course, torn into pieces. There one moment, obliterated the next.
Earth’s fate — were Jupiter not in the picture — is something that divides scientists worldwide. Does it protect our planet from comets, slinging them off piste? Or is it just pure luck that the Gas Giant hasn’t sent enemies hurtling towards us?
It’s less about luck, I have learned, and more about the very fragile balance of nature. And as fascinating as we find it, the way it all works; as terrifying as all the unknowns are, we see it reflected in every aspect of our lives, imprinted on the patterns that shape our daily routines.
♃
When I fly, I wait for the cabin pressure to plummet; for the altitude to suddenly, horrifyingly, drop. For the body of the plane, heavy and strong, to suddenly be weightless. For its wings, birdlike, to be without flight. For the air to turn toxic, sucked away from open mouths in hurried wisps.
I look at the faces of my fellow passengers, and re-imagine them twisted in fear. I take the hand of my lover next to me, warm and firm, and imagine it drained; cold and limp. I imagine my parting moment, thought, breath.
Is it so far from reason to think this could happen? To fear yet accept it, every time I fly? Not really, I’d say. The law of fragility dictates it so.
♃
