TW: suicide
I have been confined to the craft's hull for eight days, unable to bring myself to return to the command post. We have been adrift for much, much longer, eight long years, to be precise, which is a total of 2,920 days. And so, today bears a glimmer of distinction amidst the tedium of every other day, providing the faintest relief from our shackling to the flat line of time. As if tethered by our very ankles, we have been undergoing the procession of the days, waiting for another crew to arrive and retrieve us—or, otherwise, for us to retrieve meaning. But it's as if we've been flirting with the idea of spring during an endless winter— all too aware that for the past eight years spring has failed to materialize.
We are all simply left to wait.
And wait.
As I gaze out of the window, I get lost in the depths of space. It's as if I'm looking at the back of my own head, at an inconceivable number of light-years before me. The universe seems an endless loop, a tireless cycle, forever retracing its steps in time and space, like the timeless myth of Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill. And I came to conclude that the dust of diamonds, as I have renamed the stars, is a wondrous and terrible thing; it possesses the power to inspire both awe and dread. At the sight of this magnificent spectacle, one cannot help but feel a profound sense of isolation and insignificance. Sensing our own infinitesimal place comes with a crushing weight, as a constant reminder that our fleeting journey through the cosmos is but a thread in the grand tapestry of existence.
On a more personal note, I must say that I have been coping rather well with the Great Wait—as have my colleagues, Georgie and Nahra. My waking hours are generally devoted to the command center, bent over the computer trying to catch on a signal or prying the void for even the faintest flicker of a star. Otherwise, I stay in the claustrophobic quarters where I retire to rest. Once a day, Nahra and I convene in front of the "coffee machine" (it is, in truth, the turbomolecular compressor, but it bears a resemblance to the antiquated Keurig coffee machines of old) and we take pleasure in pretending that we are enjoying a corporate coffee break before it as we, in fact, indulge in a small cup of cold, instant coffee. It's a small moment of levity amidst the monotony of our daily routines. It makes the repetition a little more endurable—or less unbearable, for others. During these breaks, we challenge ourselves to conjure up fictional dramas, a way of exercising our imaginations and keeping our minds shar. Nahra will usually come up with the most scandalous scenarios. Perhaps that's something more typical to the female species. I myself can't say for certain.
At the very outset of the Great Wait, Georgie and I would jest with each other, asking stupid questions like, "How many times did you jerk off today?" or "What is the appropriate amount of times one should shit in the span of 24 hours? Once, twice? Thrice?" Let me assure you that these crude jokes arose solely from boredom, and Georgie and I made sure Nahra was spared from them completely. Out of sheer monotony and abundance of time, we had devised trivial games like tossing a tennis ball using everything but our hands or engaging in water bottle chugging contests, seemingly simple tasks that proved unexpectedly demanding in the weightlessness of space. Thus, we immersed ourselves in other frivolous pursuits, striving to elevate the mundane into something more entertaining, as if it were the only means to pass the time that remained before us. This was the only entertainment available to us, really. For our craft required no repairs; there was no urgency, no need to don the suit and venture outside. We were simply out of Tachyonic fluid. We had eight decades' worth of sustenance stock at our disposal—each of us. And as weeks turned into months, then into years, we came to the violent realization that we had an endless expanse of time ahead of us. The crude and amusing jokes whithered away, and we abandoned our tennis ball game. At our current speed of a paltry 320 knots, not even our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren would reach Milestone 16.
There are, in fact, 17 Milestones to Earth.
We are never going back to Earth. Our signals reach destination, I'm certain of it, for all of the crafts systems are intact and we are within range. We are being left unanswered, for those destined to receive our transmissions have long since succumbed to the relentless passage of time, while the terrestrial antennae are currently turned into obsolete relics. I, for myself, am of the opinion that humanity has had time either to perish or to leave the ground definitively. And so in this manner we found ourselves cursed by the Great Wait, with nothing to do but pass the time; with, if my calculations are correct, at most 18,250 days ahead of us.
Now I find myself playing with the tennis ball alone, bouncing it against the roof of my sleeping capsule as I lie in bed, waiting for it to slowly "fall" back to me in the weightless space. It is a small and rewarding diversion. It has been my favorite pastime since several years ago. I catch and throw back; it bounces and returns to me slowly; I catch and throw back. Catch and throw back. And I repeat an endless and futile cycle. Like Sisyphus on his hill.
Regarding the fourth member of our crew, I must confess—for I have been pondering over it lately—that I had a certain misgiving about Ali, our second officer pilot. Not long after the craft was thrown off course, as we were left to abide our time, he seemed to take a certain pleasure in jesting that he might one day relieve us of his oxygen allowance or even his sleeping quarters, as he was on the verge of hurling himself out through the airlock. We never took him seriously, naturally. After all, in the sinuous winds of human nature, there lingers a fine, almost imperceptible residue of optimism, and when one finds oneself cast light-years from home owing to a mere oversight in some mathematical computation, that said residue—tenuous though it may be—gradually crystallizes into something akin to a diamond.
At least, that is what I believe.
Ali took his own life nearly six years ago. He didn't believe in waiting.
And so, since then, the remaining three of us have been occasionally turning to each other and questioning, "Why not follow in Ali's footsteps? What difference would it make to the universe?"
Are we nothing more than insignificant particles within the vast expanse of the universe, destined to fade away into nothingness? Perhaps. In the midst of space, such questions may seem appropriate. But they aren't, really. In truth, it is all too easy to allow these morbid thoughts to take root in our minds, to terrify us with their implications. Every time I look out the window, I am reminded of my own insignificance, and it strikes me with a particular violence. Yet, unlike Ali, I believe that I possess a flawed spark of hope, an absurd way of conceiving the precarity of my situation akin to how Albert Camus might portray the death of his own mother. And the tennis ball, you see, has become my very own Sisyphean rock. Despite my insignificance, I retaliate against the universe as I keep throwing it against the shell of my capsule; and thus I train my mind to regard the universe as just insignificant as me.
Uno reverse. Ha-Ha.
Anyways. At the risk of appearing foolish and stubborn, I persist in living. I exist and defy the universe. If the universe chose that we should coagulate as little unseemly creatures who feel joy punctually and temporarily, is that not enough? Must we always feel that our lives lack significance and fall short? Why, I have long ago decided that I was to remain here, waiting and abiding by some senseless way of living. It is, to me, the only way.
Eight days ago, I was jolted out of my drowse by the booming sound of the airlock's shutters. It is a sound that is all too dreary to describe—a certain jarring thump that leaves one briefly numbed and swiftly reconnects one with the force of gravity. This strange, startling sensation can be felt regardless of where one happens to be positioned in the craft. If I were to attempt to convey this sensation, it would be akin to the feeling one experiences after flushing in the airplane's bathroom, but with a greater degree of resonance.
Since that sordid sound eight days ago, I have found myself incapable of leaving my quarters. I simply cannot bear to learn who, between Nahra or Georgie, was responsible for such sordid means.
Moreover, as I now admit it to myself with the deepest horror, the craft has been absolutely still for the past eight days.
