Nolite te bastardes carbondondum
The phrase may be bogo-Latin, but it's been my mantra as I count down the days of this deployment and the short days before the next. This place is oppressive, stultifying. It's an intellectual straitjacket. There's hardly a soul here that I can make any connection with. Everywhere I turn it's yet another restriction, yet another arbitrary rule. I feel like some of my keenness has been blunted. It's isolation without the peace of solitude.
It's true that the sun still shines, but I haven't seen it in over sixty days. I haven't even seen the shine of Rigel and Betelgeuse, or the twinkling of Orion's belt in the chill winter sky. My world is made of iron and steel, interrupted only by the plastic and rubber and cloth of what passes for amenities around here. Even the food is repetitive and artificial. Cold fried potatoes. Cold waffles, no peanut butter. Bacon burned to carbon, or so undercooked I don't dare eat it. The closest thing I get to variation is the motion of the waves, and the vague lassitude caused by the drugs I need to not vomit when the waves strike.
They say you get better accommodations in jail. I'm inclined to believe it, but at least I have the comfort of knowing that I'm not actually a criminal.
I'm going to go catch two hours of fitful sleep and come back to the same old grind. The days run together. I only know it's February 25, because good old E2 has no reason to lie to me. Honestly, I should be excited. We're almost home. But because another six months of this looms not so far away - much sooner than usual - it rather blunts my excitement.
Another day. Nolite te bastardes carbondondum.