Personal Log: Robert Robinson Stardate 5793.4

 

When I first woke up on the Enterprise, I thought I was dreaming—or maybe losing my mind. It’s been months now, and I still have moments where I feel like I’ve stepped into one of those old sci-fi shows I used to watch back in Maine. The reality, though, is far stranger. It’s not a show; it’s my life now.

I’ve gone from being a man tinkering with old radios in the woods to standing on the observation deck of a starship, watching stars streak past at warp speed. I don’t know what’s more surreal: the technology, the aliens, or the fact that I’m learning to hold my own in conversations with a Vulcan.

It’s not easy being here. Don’t get me wrong—the crew is incredible. Captain Kirk? The man’s a legend. He has this mix of charm and command that makes you want to follow him into anything. Spock? He’s like a walking, talking encyclopedia, but beneath all that logic, I swear there’s a spark of curiosity about me that he doesn’t quite understand. And then there’s Dr. McCoy—gruff on the outside, but you can tell he cares deeply about everyone aboard this ship.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss home. I miss the feel of a summer breeze in Maine, the sound of crickets at night, the smell of pine trees after it rains. I even miss the little things, like flipping through old paperbacks or walking down to the corner store for a soda.

The hardest part is knowing that none of that exists for me anymore. Maine, Earth, my time—they’re all long gone. Everyone I knew, everyone I loved…they’re just memories now. Sometimes I wonder if I’m supposed to mourn them, or if it’s better to just keep moving forward.

The Enterprise has a way of keeping me busy, though. Scotty’s taken me under his wing, teaching me the ins and outs of starship engineering. He says I’ve got a natural talent for it, though I think he just appreciates having someone who doesn’t mind getting their hands dirty. There’s something comforting about working with machinery—it’s predictable, reliable, unlike the chaos of everything else in my life.

Then there’s Spock. He’s fascinated by me, though he’d never admit it outright. I think it’s because I represent some sort of anomaly in his logical world—a 21st-century human thrown into the 23rd century by sheer accident. He asks me questions about Earth in my time, and I ask him about Vulcan culture. We’ve developed this odd sort of friendship, built on curiosity and mutual respect.

I’m also learning to contribute in ways I didn’t expect. The other day, Lieutenant Uhura asked for my help deciphering a signal that turned out to be an old Earth frequency, something no one else recognized. It felt good to be useful, to have a purpose here.

But for all the good moments, there are times when the isolation hits hard. I’ll see a crew member talking to their family on a viewscreen or hear them sharing stories about growing up on some far-off colony, and it reminds me that I don’t have those connections anymore. I’ve been untethered, cut loose from everything that anchored me.

Sometimes I think about the Vulcan device that brought me here. Spock says it’s inert now, its energy spent, but I still wonder: was it really an accident? Or was this…destiny? I’m not one for grand philosophies, but the thought lingers. Maybe there’s a reason I ended up here. Maybe I’m meant to do something important.

For now, I’m trying to take it one day at a time. The Enterprise is a big place, and there’s always something new to learn, something to fix, something to explore. And when the loneliness creeps in, I remind myself of the stars. Out here, they seem brighter somehow, like they’re trying to tell me something.

This isn’t the life I imagined, but it’s the life I have. And maybe, just maybe, it’s where I’m supposed to be.