Riley's Journal

[Riley Novak]

January 9th, 2003





Dear Felix,


I’m not entirely sure how to start this, or if I even should be writing. Maybe I should just jump in.

My therapist is the one that suggested it. He assumes that I’m struggling with military life, that I overwork myself and in the process have lost my way, so to speak. He thinks keeping a journal will help clear my thoughts and put my life back together like a neat, little package. He suggested that I address it to someone else, someone who won’t ever read it, but someone I’d normally confide in. I don’t have many friends, virtually none to speak of, but at least I have you: my cat that hangs out in my shitty apartment and is fed by neighbors while I’m away. You should feel honored, really.

This writing assignment is both puzzling and intriguing. Although the therapist’s axioms were incorrect, his conclusion was somewhat true: I have lost myself.

I doubt you’d understand who I am Felix, or more importantly, what I am. By undesired design, I’m wrapped in something greater than me, a plot that will affect the lives of millions. I can never go into specifics, but know that this has all happened before, and it will happen again.

Some say that the culmination of your personal choices, as well as your memories, help define who you are. Others believe that it’s the people you interact with that simultaneously shape you both. Lastly, there’s the bullshit philosophy that you can “be whoever you want to be!” Regardless, I cannot easily subscribe to such schools of thought. My situation has damaged my sense of identity, and that is why I have lost myself.

I don’t know why they bother giving us basic memories. Past lives of people that never existed, events that are as fictitious as campfire stories. There’s too much pain and suffering, and despite recognizing its illegitimacy, my emotions that are attached to such recollections feel so very real that its almost impossible to dismiss. If I can’t define myself from a fake childhood, then who am I really? Free will is an illusion: I’m bound by my sense of duty, to help others that have come before me and those that will surpass my existence.

By simply being, I have been condemned to live a life in limbo: never truly human, never truly machine. Both have their place in the world, and both acknowledge who they are and what they’re capable of, but where does that leave me?

I can’t write anymore, this is getting too upsetting. I have a lot to think about, and maybe I’ll start writing again soon. Its nice to know that someone’s listening, even if its just for pretend.

Maybe I’m just good at pretending?



-Riley

[Riley Novak]

January 17th, 2003





Dear Felix,


It’s been a while since I last wrote to you (or for myself, however you want to describe this). Part of it had to do with frustration, deep thinking and such. It’s also in part due to my busy schedule.

Life aboard a Battlestar is…interesting, to say the least. As large as they are, it’s almost impossible to avoid people. Not once have I wandered these halls and not see others moving briskly to their next destination. Once I even decided to go for a late night stroll, and still, managed to spot some crewmen. Privacy is rare on such a ship, and I’ve come to realize that my only true solitude is in my writing.

Not that I always want to be alone, mind you. In fact, it’s quite the opposite: I desire some social interaction, and hope to make a friend soon. I’ve been on this boat for a couple months and barely spoken two words to my compatriots.

Its never fun being alone, being left alone, or just plain shunned. I’m often unsure of what to say to people, they have no real reason to talk to a deckhand half the time, so I usually don’t even bother. I think my awkwardness and shyness has inadvertently pushed people away. That’s one of the odd things about humans: if they don’t understand it, then they automatically dislike it.

The only redeeming thing about living on a Battlestar, oddly enough, is the work I get to do. My specialty is the various Viper and Raptor ships that can be repaired or maintained, but I’m always willing to take on a challenge. The Deck Chief recognized this early on, and has assigned me small jobs on the side, fixing anything and everything on the Battlestar. I’d like to believe that my talents are a gift from God, but I know that’s not entirely the case.

I think I excel at repairing things because of the inherent simplicity to it: machines don’t squabble about their latest drama, they don’t yell at you or call you names. They either work or they don’t, and if they don’t, the problem is usually straightforward.

I wish people were equally as simplistic. Machines are so open and honest about what they are and what they do, but people are tricky to read. They lie, cheat, steal, all with a smile plastered across their dumb faces. Why do they insist on being untruthful? Why must they continue to try and hide the fact that they are not perfect? Not too long ago a war was fought, and out of sheer dumb luck they managed to push their enemy back. It’s not a testament to their strength, rather, sheds light on their stubborn resilience.

Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to get along with anyone here. I assume that everything must be said the right way, that I must appease everyone. And yet, maybe the reality is that it’s just pointless?

Perhaps I’m painting a biased picture here Felix. I don’t want to give you the impression that all people are bad. Despite their (many) flaws, there are some positive and impressionable qualities in them. Fear, kindness, humor, and the most puzzling of all….love. These are the kinds of things more likely to be seen. Although they live and work aboard a large metal tin-can of death and destruction, I’ve seen how humans relax and socialize. They tell jokes, laugh, pull pranks, or just talk over some homemade liquor. Occasionally I witness the fleeting glances two lovers give to each other as they pass by in the hall.

If I can’t connect with these people, then perhaps it has to do with the fact that I don’t behave and think like them. I do my job sure enough, but there are some deep human qualities to them that might change my perspective on things.

Like “love”.

Does love exist? Surely it doesn’t; its not measurable, can’t be seen, hold, tasted, or touched. There’s love in things, like a kiss, but what makes that any different than two people awkwardly pressing their mouths against another’s?

Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t know love. Supposedly my fake memories tell me that I love my parents, but that’s more of a childish hopelessness from an orphan. True love, real and intense love, is something I’ve yet to feel. I want to feel. I want to love. I just don’t know how.

I should stop while I’m ahead though. Here I am talking about love, and I haven’t even made any friends yet.

There is an engineer, Tania I think her name is, that’s been smiling at me lately. She seems like a nice person, the only one that’s ever bothered to look at me directly lately. Perhaps she’ll want to be my friend? I’ll have to see.


-Riley