The passenger

I think Aristotle once said that a human becomes a human being with their first laugh. I've always imagined this as a ball of light that bubbles up from within fleshy depths, solidifying into a soul that shines and glimmers from the throat – a source of fuel that keeps a human's heart pumping and their limbs moving.

For years, I've been convinced that my soul escaped, only to be replaced with something else. Inside myself, I can sense an iron ball. It's dull and pitted, about the size of a fist, and it's alright at converting fuel. Whatever I feed it transforms and re-emerges as energy, so fast I can't catch any excess. It weighs a lot, and rattles my rib-cage when I become too excited, but I've learned to live with it.

Usually, the iron ball is hot and fitful, whirring and grinding until I have to outrun the terror it instills deep within me. Often, it grows cold and presses itself to my spine, whereupon it whispers of its time within Neptune's rings. Its stories fill me with a loneliness so unbearable, I must stop and curl around its hard little form until it warms up once again.
A few times, the loud and uneven rolling about has caused me so much horror and unbalance, I wanted to wade into the sea and let it drag me under.

Although I've become accustomed to its peculiarities, I don't know what the iron ball wants, or why it's decided to roost within me. Worst of all, I don't know how to replenish its mass. It's oxidized over the years, and its brittle surface sheds little chips that find their way between my ribs. I think if you cut me open, you'd find my organs embedded with the stuff.

The sound it produces has petered into a feeble whine, too discordant to be a true hum. Still it tells me of Neptune, the cold vacuum of space, and the awful distance between stars. It mirrors the void within me, in the crystalline structures of the ball's decaying body. The energy it provides has been meek and tinged with sour of late, and it demands to be overspent on daily tasks that take me weeks to accomplish.

Sometimes, I'd like to believe that the ball is my enemy, but I know that isn't the case. I think it recognized me as a lost creature, and perhaps it pitied me before worming its way into my chest. I think it may have grown too large to escape. I think I may be smothering it.

I hope that, when it's small enough to slip free of my old bones, it will remember our time together fondly. I hope it finds a body more suited to its needs, one that won't abrade its porous surface. And, when it finally returns to the vast emptiness of space, I hope it carries my song with it – the one I sang whenever it shivered and wailed.

I wish I could love you, ferrous lump. I wish you could love me back.