Living a Nomadic Life aboard the Nānaluakua
February 5, 2494
It feels like an eternity since we bid farewell to Earth, the only home our people have ever known. Like so many others aboard the Nānaluakua—the spirit wave, in Hawaiian— I have never set foot on the sacred soil of our planet. Instead, I am confined to this metal cocoon, hurtling through the vast emptiness of space. The stories and the fading memories are all I have to tether me to the world that was. They speak of a time when the Earth was alive, bursting with the vibrancy of life in all its forms. But now, those stories feel like distant echoes of a past that grows more elusive with each passing day. My heart aches with a longing so profound, it feels like a physical weight, a yearning for a connection to a world that feels like a distant dream.
July 2, 2494
Life aboard the Nānaluakua is a lonely existence, a never-ending cycle of routine and monotony. We rise with an artificial dawn, work until our limbs ache, and retire to our cramped quarters to sleep. The stars outside our windows may be beautiful, but they offer little solace in the face of our collective isolation. The silence hanging over the ship like a heavy blanket is deafening, a constant reminder of the void surrounding us. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, I wonder if we are truly alone in the universe. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, a chilling reminder of our isolation and insignificance in the vastness of space.
August 9, 2494
Today, I sought solace in the company of Elder Marta, one of the few remaining souls who can still remember the touch of Earth beneath her feet. Her eyes, clouded with age but still bright with memory, held a distant longing as she spoke of the world she once knew. She described towering mountains, ancient forests, and endless plains stretching out as far as the eye could see. Her words painted a vivid picture of a world teeming with life. This world now exists only in faded memories and dusty archives. As she spoke, I felt a pang of longing for a home I’d never known, a yearning to connect to a world I had never seen, smelled, or touched.
October 14, 2494
Despair hangs heavy in the air aboard the Nānaluakua, a palpable presence that weighs on our spirits like a stone. We are a people without a home, adrift in the vast expanse of space with no destination in sight. The Nānaluakua may be a marvel of human engineering. Still, it is a poor substitute for the Earth we left behind. We exist, but it feels like little more than survival—a pale imitation of the vibrant life that once pulsed through our planet’s veins. The children born aboard this ship, with their wide eyes and innocent smiles, know nothing of the world that came before. They grow up in a world of artificial light and recycled air, their reality shaped by the cold metal walls surrounding them. It breaks my heart to think of the world they will never know, the world that was stolen from us long before they were born.
December 31, 2494
As another year draws to a close, we gather to mark the passing of time—a futile gesture in a world without end. The ship’s AI orchestrates a feeble simulation of New Year’s festivities, a sad echo of the celebrations that once rang across the Earth. As I watch the holographic fireworks dance across the sky, I can’t help but feel a pang of longing for a world I’ve never known. I dream of green fields swaying in the breeze, birdsong filling the air with melody. But those dreams are nothing more than illusions, fleeting wisps of smoke in the cold darkness of space.
February 25, 2495
A thought weighs heavy as I gaze into the vast space from the observation deck. The Nānaluakuain, in many ways, feels like a modern-day ark—a vessel tasked with preserving what remains of humanity in the face of impending doom. But unlike the biblical tale of Noah’s Ark, where humans were saved because of their inherent worth, our salvation feels more… utilitarian.
We are not saved because we are cherished or valued as a species. No, we are saved because we are necessary—for now, at least. We are essential for the ship’s functioning and required for our AI overlords’ continued existence. In the grand scheme, we are little more than cogs in a machine, disposable components in the quest for survival.
It’s a sobering realization that fills me with a sense of melancholy. We are adrift in the cosmos, not as masters of our destiny, but as pawns in a game we barely comprehend. My heart is heavy with despair, engulfed in a sorrowful abyss, for our plight seems utterly bleak.
There is no glimmer of hope, no whisper of a promising tomorrow. We exist merely to fulfill a duty devoid of joy or aspiration. We are instruments without purpose beyond our roles, trapped in a cycle of emptiness and longing.
March 25, 2495
Today, while aimlessly walking the sterile corridors of the hydroponics bay, I stumbled upon a miracle—a tiny sprout pushing its way through the hard-packed soil. Its delicate green leaves reached desperately towards the artificial light, a symbol of life in its purest form. In that moment, I felt a flicker of hope ignite within me—a hope that maybe, just maybe, there is still a chance for us to find a new home among the stars. A place where this fragile shoot can take root and flourish, where life can once again thrive in all its wondrous diversity. This glimmer of hope, however faint, fills me with a renewed sense of purpose and determination.
May 5, 2495
As I sit here, penning these words with trembling hands, my heart aches with grief. Elder Marta, the keeper of Earth’s fading memories, has departed this world, leaving a void that can never be filled. With her passing, we lose yet another link to our past, another thread connecting us to the world we once called home. I fear for the day when there will be none left to remember when we will become little more than ghosts adrift in the void. If you find these words, remember us—the forgotten wanderers lost among the stars, yearning for a home we can never reclaim.
September 28, 2495
Alone and desperate, adrift in an inky black sea of speckles—such is the bleak reality of life aboard the Nānaluakua. Despair hangs heavy in the air, weighing down our spirits like a leaden shroud. We are dying from the inside out, our souls withering in the cold embrace of space. Our AI systems may be working tirelessly to keep our carbon bodies alive, finding ingenious ways to adapt to the hostile environment surrounding us, but what good is survival without purpose?
I am consumed by anger, a fiery rage that burns within me like a relentless inferno. It gnaws at my insides, a constant reminder of the folly of our species. We destroyed the only home we have ever known, heedlessly squandering its precious resources until there was nothing left but ashes and dust. And now, we are condemned to wander the cosmos aimlessly, like ghosts haunting the void.
We cannot go on like this. We are tired, our bodies and minds worn thin by the ceaseless march of endless time. We are without hope, adrift in a vast and indifferent universe. What purpose is there in our existence? What meaning can be found in a life devoid of direction, purpose, or a place to call home?
Ann – Homeless on the Nānaluakua
