Somewhere Else

There is nowhere else I would rather be. Nowhere else… than somewhere else. Travelling. On some adventure. I rather like the thought of home. But I’ve never truly had one. I have a home now, but it certainly does not feel as such. Simply, it is where my things belong. Not me myself.

Where I belong is looking for the answers to the world. Where I belong is making sense of this place that we call home. Wherever that might take me. Wherever that “somewhere else” might be. And that is how I came to Aldur.

My travels have taken me throughout the skies. I have seen and experienced such things in such little time. Each stop, a life in itself. Of course, I know nothing of these places. Only the people who live in these places know them truly. People are everything. There is nothing else meaningful or of value in this world. Each person is their own world. The world itself is empty.

The first step for me is finding someone open to speaking. It’s very simple, usually, going to some public place or event and asking someone: “Can you tell me about this place?” That question forms the staircase by which I might descend into their depths. It’s never the place I’m interested in. It’s the person. Then, I must ask: “And what is your place here?”

Not everyone leads an interesting life. How I dreaded the subvestibules of Skief. How every breathing being was engaged in the filthiest of dealings. The way they spoke and interacted. And how I loved that feeling. I loved the feeling of dreading that place because it made me ask the question: “Why?” Like on the white beaches of Trossa. How the people there found joy in lying before the orange sun, reading the latest and dimwittedest releases. Sipping away their days in ecstasy.

It made me feel vile. And that made me feel fascinated. “How can these people find joy and pleasure in this?” I asked myself. Perhaps some might call them simpletons, others boring. Yet these baskers were perfectly content with their place in this world. “Why?” What a beautiful mystery to unravel.

And thus was I brought to Aldur. A cold and desolate place. A beautiful place. So small and so cruel. People so cold and so bitter. People so lost and so broken. So it was said. Few places inspire fear in me. Aldur did. Because when I departed my transporter, I was alone. Gray structures stood in the grid of a city. But the street was wafting snow. Perhaps there even was no street — I never did see beneath. I saw no people. I saw no vehicles. I saw no signs.

Without people, we are nothing. A place such as this is nothing. To be there alone would be to be nowhere. Yet, though small, Aldur was an important place by its isolation. It was safe. Friendly? Not in the slightest. But at least it was safe. A certain type of person values that. Is that not fascinating?

Around, I looked. It was difficult to determine which parts of the buildings were doors. Most were locked. I saw a person inside here and there, but engaged in their own business: paying no heed to my knocks on the doors. I honestly did not know whether these were houses or businesses. I knocked all the same.

Until, at last, a door opened for me. Three men stood inside a room unlike anything I had seen before. It was gray, out of concrete, with tall ceilings. All the corners were angled protrusions rather than the usual 90-degree meetings. The space did not feel empty, though it very much was. A black chain hung from the ceiling, about halfway down, leading to a hemispherical cage. Sitting upon this was a glowing orb, giving off a wavering, warm light. The furnishings were sparse and bare. Cold, in a word. A couch that was nothing more. A table that was nothing more. A desk, a painting on the wall, a white carpet.

The men, who were speaking, looked at me, now silent. “Sorry,” I said after a moment, “could you tell me where I am?” They looked at me a moment more, then at each other. Finally, one answered with a single word, “Aldur.”

My first instinct was to take this word as contempt towards a foreigner: as if I didn’t know where I was in this place nobody would reach without intention. But I have come to know people, to know better than take offence. I am no one grand. To be offended is to be pretentious.

“And what is this place? I only just arrived, and I don’t know how things work here.”

“A meeting area,” said another, their common language was heavily accented.

“Am I interrupting you?” I asked them. They looked at each other, confused, as if I had asked a senseless, foolish, naive question.

“What are you looking for?” asked the first.

“I was hoping to learn about this place, what life is like here.”

They once more looked at each other. I watched their eyes dart back and forth, from face to face. Their expressions changing so minutely. I had never seen anything like it. I could see their minds processing what — to me — held no meaning whatsoever.

“What do you want to know?” Asked the first again, so matter-of-factly.

“What were you guys doing before I came?”

“A transport ship is coming in three days with supplies. We must divide and distribute them. The Unity wants us to pay taxes for those delivered to businesses, but we should not pay tax as a non-participating outer world,” finally spoke the third man. I found it ever peculiar how he answered without saying the likes of, “we were talking about.” He simply stated the situation.

I would call these people strange, but that is not true. Nobody is strange, only misunderstood. I spoke with them for a while, and their patterns continued. Strange, here, indeed meant that I did not entirely understand what was happening. A culture so unlike anything else. So fittingly “cold.” Though blunt or maybe direct would be better words. They were perfectly kind and perfectly hospitable. If only because they were so unbothered by everything.

In the end, the leader of this little group brought me to the town’s idea of lodgings. I was the only person there. He showed me how everything worked (albeit in the same mannerisms), and we parted. There were no costs. There was no staff. I asked him why, to which he answered: “You will clean the room.” I smiled to myself when he left after saying this. I slept well, my mind on the small building he had pointed out not too far away: somewhere to buy food.

I woke to utter darkness. Silence; other than the odd craft whirring by now and again. I turned on a lamp and prepared myself for the day. I was daunted, yet excited. The people of Aldur were perhaps the most interesting I had ever met, though unravelling them felt like a monumental task. I made my way in the frigid darkness to the building.

A man was eating at a table inside, and his eyes seemed to light up as I entered. The fact that he had any reaction whatsoever peaked my interest. He stared at me as I walked over — we were the only two people there. “Are you a visitor?” he asked before I could say anything.

“Yes, I’m here to learn about life on Aldur,” I answered. “I take it you’re not from here either?”

“Is it that obvious?” he joked. “Here to learn about Aldur? I’ve been here for nearly a year, and I don’t know if there’s too much to even learn.”

“There’s always something,” I said, taking a seat across from him, “Are there not many visitors?”

“Only for business or political reasons. The occasional traveller comes by, but nobody stays for more than a day or two — just long enough to say they’ve been here. There really isn’t anything going on. Nor is there anything to see. Just lots of locked, gray buildings and snow.”

“What are you doing here, then?” I asked.

“Well, I’m their Unity representative. And don’t think I’m anyone special: it was an easy position to get given that nobody wants to spend their days in the outer reaches.”

“And do you want to spend your days here?”

The man sighed and leaned back, folding his arms. A somber expression came over him. “No. But I don’t mind being here. I’m from Saldin, so quite central. I never liked it there, so I went to school in a nearby world. Still central, I didn’t like that either. I didn’t like the people. I didn’t like the cities. I didn’t like the culture. I didn’t know what to do with my life, but I studied interplanetary relations. When I saw that the Unity wanted a representative here, I applied. Now I’m going on a year.”

“Why didn’t you like the central worlds?” I pressed.

“They aren’t fair,” he said, shaking his head, his expression twisting. “I only ever wanted a simple life. I wanted to read and write. I wanted to enjoy art and culture. I wanted to make art of my own. But nobody cared about any of that. People only ever asked me what I was going to study. I delayed my studies by a year. Then two. Then, I lost my terrible job at the spaceport. I couldn’t find another. That’s when I got frustrated enough to choose planetary relations, because I wanted to at least see if I could change how things worked, if only somewhere small.”

There were so many areas of his life I wanted to explore with my questions, but I felt it would take weeks of meeting with this stranger before I developed a satisfactory picture of him. I decided to continue with the topic of Aldur. “How has it gone, then, working here?”

“I honestly have no idea. I have a place to stay, and nobody bothers me. I’m free to do whatever I want. In that sense, it’s going well. But it can be lonely. I wouldn’t say I’m happy here. I don’t see it as permanent. I just want to work on my stuff while I have the opportunity, then see what I can do.”

“They’re strange people, aren’t they?”

He smiled. “They’re very different from any other group, certainly. They’re still people, though. Others tend to forget that. They feel and experience the world exactly the same as anyone else. They just express it differently.”

With that statement, I immediately grew fond of this man, himself “strange.” We talked for a while longer, me telling him about my own life and my own adventures leading up to Aldur. We connected very strongly over our ideas of other people. After much back and forth on such topics, I finally asked him about his interests he had mentioned before.

“What kind of writing do you do?” I asked him.

“I like writing plays about finding meaning and purpose. I like the process of visualizing the dialogues in the scenes. Their message is usually something about finding peace in whatever situation.”

“Can you give me an example, maybe a summary of a play?”

“I wrote one about Aldurian people,” he answered with a laugh, “I don’t know if calling it ‘satirical’ is appropriate, but it’s a love story about two people trying to find their way together. Of course, they’re always speaking so coldly and bluntly, it makes the whole thing rather humorous. But the whole point is to show how we all feel the same in the end, no matter who we are or where we come from.”

And on we talked for hours and hours. About life, about the Unity, about inner and outer worlds, about modern society, about the different types of people. We shared our thoughts and our perspectives. We shared our interests and passions. He never once questioned me or my intentions. He never asked why I was so curious or interested. He was only ever open about anything and everything, having no fear in his answers.

Having seen the world, I would dare not call him a “rare” type of person. Rather, I would call this type of interaction rare. There are so few places in this world where we can meet someone and simply be ourselves and talk freely and openly for so long — and I mean that regarding strangers. It was clear that he didn’t care what anyone thought about him. He did not fear judgment, nor did he judge. He merely had pain in his heart that he wanted the world to understand: that we should not be trapped, to embrace who we are. His message to the world was to be free; he was not allowed to be free. He spent his days on a frozen, barren rock — no dream of his — yet he found peace in the ability to be himself there.

Ultimately, he had to return to his work which meant leaving the next day for a visit to Unity. I remained for two more days. I tried speaking to more locals, but it went the same as before. Everyone spoke in facts. They expressed their curiosity in simple questions and never dug deeper. Oddly, they were satisfied with my answers. I saw no desire to dig. I was happy enough with my visit, so I left with the transport ship. I’ll never know whether the tax dilemma was solved. I only wonder whether that was a big deal to them or if they didn’t really care.

Maybe I’ll return one day. 

Ironically, I learned nothing about Aldur. I learned nothing about the people there. And I find that so profoundly beautiful. That I embarked on such an adventure with such goals only to end up meeting the most interesting man from Saldin. I learned his story. I learned what his life was like on Aldur. And thus, that was Aldur. That was his Aldur.

What a marvelous place to attract people like this. The only thing more beautiful than that interaction is the fact that I never even asked his name.