Carlos. Dr. Carlos, to be exact. That's my name, but it doesn't matter anymore I guess. Some days I wonder if anything matter around here at all. People disappear left and right, buildings don't exist, and people I know just walk through me as if I didn't exist at all.
Not existing... Now there's a thought for all us scientists out there. Science isn't limited to what we know, it's only limited to the questions we ask. Maybe it's all a trick, and I'll wake up back home, ridiculed for my studies of the unusual. Or maybe one day, I too will have to be sacrificed to sate Station Management's cruelty, or eat the dreaded wheat, or be taken by a dark blue helicopter, or a thousand other things.
Maybe this still isn't my place. Maybe I'll always feel isolated, sequestered, alone- deserted in the desert with the others who never fit in.
Maybe I don't exist. Maybe none of this exists. I've never really thought through what I wanted from this place, but it's weird, occult, a perfect place for my research. It's research, research to prove that sometimes, sometimes theories like gravity and time's linear progression and even pure existence can and must fall apart before us. And I want to be here examining the pieces.
But I still don't like doing it alone. Yes, there are the other scientists, but they... they're... frightened. Nervous, apprehensive creatures, raised where anything could fall apart in front of them, and they could just melt away like gallium in a glass of hot tea. But I used to live outside, were risk-taking was more than a sport: it was a way of living- it was the goal, not the means.
But only acceptable change. Only acceptable risks. Not leaving everything and moving into a deserted area for your dreams. Not falling for those you loved, not those you were supposed to. Not demanding your rights as a human being. Not being me.
And Cecil... I'm not like him. I can't just slap a smile on it and call it good. I can't say I'm at home in a crowd, I can't make friends quickly, I can't do a lot of things. I just can't pull my head out of the glow clouds in my lab and be who he wants. I'm so exhausted and stranded here, I might as well be a boat- a boat lost in a sea of sand, searching for that ocean.
I'm not just lonely because I'm alone; I'm lonely because I'm always alone- I've always been alone. I've always been this miscalculated, fumbling little thing, trying to find its place and constantly told its wrong. It's wrong.
It's wrong.
I'm wrong.
But I'm not, you're wrong. The premise is wrong, the whole question is wrong. Anyone can pursue science, science isn't an exclusive club just for the "best," "proper" and most acceptable- it's for all our questions. And loving isn't wrong, and being sad and lonely and feeling like you're screwed up sometimes isn't wrong- it's growing up: it's biting into that nature of good and evil, life and death, love and hate.
I'm not wrong, but I am lonely. And that's right. I'm lonely while surrounded by people who love me, and that means I need a break, I need to either talk to one or take time alone. And that's my nature, nothing wrong, nothing to fear, and definitely nothing to tell Cecil about.
