To keep moving forward...

Posted on Fri Jun 23, 2017 @ 8:05pm by Lieutenant JG Jacob Hartley

Mission: Shore Leave
Location: Hartley Home, Earth
Timeline: MD 16 || 2215 Hours

Sitting alone in his house on Earth, Jacob looked at the flames that were flickering in the fireplace. The house had belonged to his birth grandparents, and he had inherited it after the death of his parents. It was comfortable, if not larger than he needed. After all, it was just him there.

As he sat at the old, wooden desk in the lounge, he looked at the manuscript in front of him that he had been working on for a while, but he hadn't been able to continue. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but he was finding it hard to focus on the words at the moment.

For Jacob, writing was something that came naturally to him. He had read a lot of different stories of things that had happened to Starfleet officers, and to civilians, and he knew what kind of lives people lived outside of Starfleet, but for some reason, he couldn't find the story that was working for him.

He had always had the imagination to write; but he hadn't thought to put words to paper for many years. When he did, so many different stories came out. None of which he had published though; he didn't want to publish them, at least not yet. He needed them to be perfect.

Sighing, he put down his pen, and leaned back in his chair. He had always preferred to write with old fashioned instruments; it gave him a sense of feeling when writing, and he felt comforted by it. But with everything that had happened, first on the Triumphant, and now with the death of his mentor, he was finding it hard to feel comforted, or to find his imagination.

Standing up, he made his way to his kitchen. The lights of the room were dimmed; he enjoyed the ambiance of the room on cold nights like tonight. He went to the cupboard, and prepared the ingredients for a hot chocolate. His grandparents, and by extension his parents, were old fashioned when it came to cooking or about any food or drink. There were no replicators in the house, and that suited Jacob. It allowed him to take a break from technology, and everything. He had to admit, living like this wasn't entirely bad.

After preparing his drink, he went back to the desk and sat down. Looking at the paper again, he decided to scrap the idea of writing his manuscript, and so took a fresh sheet of paper, and began to write something else.

'I write this as a log of things that have happened to me, events that I can't even understand. Why is it that, no matter how much things move forward, I find myself drawn to the past? I have faced many hardships, and yet I still can't bring myself to face up against the ghosts of my past. My parent's cargo ship is still trading, and so earning me a profit, yet I do not want it. But why not? Can I not use it in some way to help others? Or perhaps, if the time comes that I am no longer fit for Starfleet, that I have a place to call home?' He wrote. He took a sip of his drink, and sighed, taking another look at the flames, at the way they flickered and ate away at the wood in the fireplace.

'Home. It's an alien concept to me, in a sense. Everywhere that most people call home, I hesitate to do so. Recently, on the Triumphant, the ship almost killed the crew thanks to an alien life form in the computer. So I hesitate to call a ship home, because a ship is just a place which can easily be destroyed. If history is any judge, a ship can be destroyed easily, without warning. So maybe my parent's starship? Or this house?' He wrote.

Contemplating his next words, he shook his head. 'I think the complicated question isn't where a home is, but what is a home? Is it love or family? My adoptive family were kind and caring, no doubt there, but they weren't able to answer my questions about where I came from, growing up. And then, of course, it was quite strict, which helped make me the man I am today.'

He paused as he looked at the words he had written already. Taking another sip of his drink, he frowned as he thought of the events that had happened, the ship issues, the funeral...he found himself contemplating the past. 'So where do I go now? What do I do to make a home? Is it about a relationship? Or is it something more? Something I was told growing up...I was told about life, and how harsh it is. My adoptive father wasn't wrong about that.' Jacob wrote.

Now he was writing, he found the words coming easily. 'Life isn't going to be fair. It's tough, nasty and mean, and no matter how strong you are, there is nothing that will hit harder than life. But it isn't about how hard you hit, it's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward. How much you can take, and keep moving forward.' He wrote.

Often, he wrote like this, and put the thoughts into a folder when he was finished. He had written many views on life, many different opinions about things he had faced, and things he had felt. It wasn't quite a journal, but it was close enough.

'So how do I keep going forward even though I have no idea about the path I'm meant to take? It was the poet Dante who wrote 'In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.''

Pausing to finish his drink, he found himself knowing what to write next, even if he didn't fully understand it. 'So perhaps I have something in common with Dante as I reach this part of my life. I know that I am on an important path in life, being in Starfleet, and being out there, helping those who need help. But perhaps, until I can understand what a home truly is, I will not be able to understand what life is. I know it has to be more than duty. But how much more? How much do you give for those you don't know? How much do you sacrifice? Whatever it is, I know I haven't given everything. Not yet.' He wrote.

He sighed as he looked at the pages, and allowed himself to think of the things he couldn't do. He hadn't been able to mourn properly, and he wasn't sure he knew how. He had spent so long shutting himself off from loss, from pain and grief, especially given everything he had faced, perhaps he had sacrificed the most important part of himself; his heart. 'Or have I given everything of value? Have I sacrificed my heart to help those who needed it? Have I given too much in the line of duty? I know people die in the service, but they give their lives for the greater good. But do they give their soul, their hearts and their beings? Is that what life is? Will I be able to find out? Or is this all life has in store for me? I guess only time will tell.' He finished.

He looked at the pages, and picked them up. Walking over to the fire, he looked at them, and then at the fire, before pausing. Sometimes, he liked to burn what he had written, because they were words only he needed to hear. This...was this one of those times, or was this him trying to destroy the evidence? He would always remember the words, of course; his eidetic memory would make sure of that.

But perhaps these words would be helpful to someone else one day. He removed a folder from the book case, and put the pages in. Before he closed the folder, he looked at an excerpt, knowing that they were the most important words he had written.

'No matter how strong you are, there is nothing that will hit harder than life. But it isn't about how hard you hit, it's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward. How much you can take, and keep moving forward.'

Now he had to keep going forward, no matter what.