It's the strangest thing.

During launch there's a cacophony of sound and a tremendous shattering, mighty force of

pressure.

So much so that it feels as if in that moment the whole world is collapsing.

When you grit your teeth and your knuckles flush white from a grip, you trust your harness

and you shut your eyes so tight you feel the bleed.

But then some minutes after leaving that pad, it's all over.

And there's nothing but silence to be heard.

And the beauty in silence and no weight of gravity at all to tie you down.

So you turn around as you fly off and see the world of the earth there in your own little

window and you realize you look at that sphere of it.

And on that sphere is and was everything that is and that has ever happened.

And every man and woman in child, that all the wars and love and songs and stories that

ever were were fought and cherished and sung and told right there.

But a little blue marble that you can almost hold between your fingertips.

So small it is.

I was born and was a child there right by that ocean and became a man in a town 1200 miles

away.

A distance that from up here represents not more than an inch.

It's surreal.

Sometimes I'm out here among the stars.

I feel the same smallness that's both awesome and terrible and equal measure.

...