It is 2:00 AM on February 1st in Taiwan while most places on this planet are still on Jan. 31st.
While I am not sure which day the official Day of Remembrance is, it doesn't matter because they are remembered everyday.
In the morning of February 1st, 2003, I was on the 8th floor of St. Luke's Hospital recovering from reverting the world back from Apocalypses one to many times. Then, we heard from TV that Houston had lost contact with the Columbia Shuttle.
In my world of alternative reality, I looked down at St. John whose top was blanketed with snow. I asked for help.
I tried to channel with whoever I could connect with on board of Columbia. I try to keep the connection open.
So the line was kept open and I tried my best to engage conversations with them and encourage them too pull it through.
"Hang in there. Try to hang in there. The search and help was on the way." I pleaded.
Time passed and the official statement was finally released on TV.
Debris were found but there was no trace of survival though the search would continue.
My pal on the other side of the line bid me farewell, "Now I have to go."
I could bring the world back from the apocalypses but there was nothing I could do to save the astronauts on the Columbia Shuttle.
One life. At last one life. That was what I asked for.
I knew. They might have a chance and the sad ending could be reverted if I wasn't so weak.
That day, concern and worry was on all my ward mates' face though there was no telling what was in their minds.
14 years later today, I grieved for these astronauts, those who I try to help saving, the same way I did when the communication channel dropped on the day of the accident.
Do I know now that the astronauts had no inkling who I was and am? Yes.
Do I know that I was a telepathic delusional with hallucination? Yes.
Albeit with all the insights, my regrets still get the best of me for one simple reason--it was life lived for me: a traumatic failure to bring them back safely.