I lay upon the ground and stared at the stars.
I was one of the fortunate few who had been able to emigrate from Earth to one of the colonies on another world, an alien world around an alien sun with alien life. None was intelligent though. Just not of our homeworld.
My head was nestled in the alien grass analog. My eyes were fixed on the stars. My eyes wandered from star to star. Wondering, pondering, hoping, questing. Never really resting.
I raised my hand upwards and stretched it as though attempting to reach the stars. Some deep yearning guiding my fingers to attempt to touch, to stroke, to grasp those bright points of light.
I was not alone. My other hand was held and warm in the grasp of the one I loved. The one I cared for. The one whom I hoped would be mine forever. Or at least in this life time.
I watched my fingers caress each star, each system around them or so I imagined, each twinkling light. Hoping, yearning, dreaming. I looked and watched and wondered.
My hand was squeezed. Lightly, lovingly, caringly, but a bit concerned.
"Don't you ever get tired of looking up? Looking outward? Looking to the new vista?"
I squeezed back. I knew the question was important to my significant other. That it might implications for the future. For our future. But the best policy would be to just be truthful, for the truth will out. And if I had not answered honestly now, the foundation of what we had would be rotten, poorly poured and poorly set, and would fall away in time.
"No," I replied, hoping for the best reaction, "I don't. I can't. We're all standing in the mud, but some of us are yearning for the stars."