Towards the Center Led By Force and Purpose, Pt. 2..

There’s some way out of this, there’s got to be! I can run, right? I can leave now and hopefully get far enough away that no one will know who I am, not that everyone knows who I am around here anyway. Sure, they could find me, but that would develop into an unnecessarily taxing search all too fast.

That would get tiring fast, though. I’d have to move outside regulation, and that in itself could land me in confinement, and I don’t… well, I don’t think I love my life that much, to risk something like that. If I was in prison the syndicate could find me easier, but it would be just to their advantage to see me rot in confinement for the rest of my natural life, contemplating choices and all that lead me up to where I am now.

But of course the syndicate doesn’t forgive and it would find me and kill me anyway. So at this point here I am. My mind is racing, trying to find the loophole, but there’s no loophole, there’s only what I’ve been over, and I go over it all again in my mind, trying to find some way out, but there’s no way out, there’s no loophole, there’s only what I’ve seen before and NO! There is a way out. Physics demands it! NO! There is no way out.

Am I this way because of my lack of purpose? Well who has purpose to begin with. Nothing short of a last-minute conversion to some religion could convince me otherwise. So why should this upset me? Why shouldn’t this upset me? There’s got to be a way out. I could go to my refrigerator right now and start eating, eat as much as I could in what time I have left and try to make purpose, and then I would die having given purpose to those bits of food and those electrons diverted

Oh, but they don’t care, they don’t. And I will die and that food will have done nothing for me, it won’t help me survive, and even if it did, what then, I would die eventually, and even if I never died, how is that any different? The electrons don’t care, the food doesn’t care, the syndicate cares, and that’s it, and I’m rushed because of it, and damn it, I care. I don’t want to care, I don’t. I will die. I will die. I will die in minutes. I will never be realized, even desperately.

Those eyes, though, they are permeating and staring at me and I have no idea how long they’ve been there but there they are. His mouth is the next thing I notice, when it says, “You are who I’m looking for?”, and then there’s a man there; he’s wearing a black vest and it doesn’t matter how he entered the quarters, does it?

Towards the Center Led By Force and Purpose, Pt. 1..

In a matter of minutes an agent of the syndicate will walk through the front door of the quarters, and an indeterminate amount of time afterwards I will be dead. I won’t know that, of course, because, as I’ve already stated, I’ll be dead and incapable of knowing that very fact. It’s not really a paradox, it’s more of a desperate realization.

You know, likely I’m not going to see it coming. Maybe all of a sudden everything will just end and I won’t have any more time to reflect on my situation. I think that would be best. A pulse through the window. Or perhaps my own recognition of my own peril will consume me and, driven only by the possibility of exterminating itself, convince my heart to stop beating and all of those neurons to stop firing and my eyelids to close. I can’t stop going over it, though, and I can’t die until I’ve figured it out.

Ah… from what I remember, though, the syndicate prefers to make known their presence. Those hilarious bastards can harvest some sort of pleasure, I guess, from making me aware of my own death precisely when it happens. The last thing I’ll ever know is a pulse, a slight wisp of pain, and—nothing. Litera—

…

For a moment all of my discontent and anger is directed solely at the refrigerator for misleading me as such. It clicked on, I twitched, the door might have been opening, I knew it was the fridge, I twitched again, I lost myself, but it was right there, I picked it up and found myself again and continued feeling nothing and everything. I calm and remember that it’s not the refrigerator’s fault I’m wrapped in this scenario. There’s another one of those desperate realizations again: my refrigerator is keeping what food is within it cold, for me, but I’ll be gone. And that energy will have been directed here for absolutely no purpose. It has arrived, all the electrons, looking around, being overwhelmed with despair at having no purpose at all, and having absolutely no other choice, melting into the machinery and cooling food.

I wrote a list once of a couple hundred questions I wanted to find answers to before I died. Most were things I could look up in an encyclopedia or on the grid or what not, but a few were those questions that everybody asks that no one has ever found answers to, or at least answers that are universally true. I felt I could tackle ‘em, and now it seems more than obvious that I can’t or ever could. Come to think of it, I never even took the time to research any of the others, either. I’m going to die without knowing the modified circumference of the earth or how many atoms there were in the city or… and without having answered the more important questions, how on earth am I to know whether my knowing the answers to those questions mattered?

Well now I have no idea where I’m headed. There’s certainly no afterlife which means things could only get better… only what if I’ve grown accustomed to that idea and all of a sudden I do exist and it’s extremely dissatisfying because I was looking forward to a long rest of nothingness (of course this doesn’t make sense either because what’s the point of a rest if you can’t even realize what’s going on).

'Does it look like I promise you anything?'

The waters have been calm for awhile, and I don't think we're near any sharks. Food's running low, though, and I'm starting to see things. Maybe they're real?

Second Journal from the Ocean.

29 December—Neptune Station. On Monday we finally created a stable cut. Damian, Andersson, and I managed to work out the magnets and it just seemed like all the other levels fell into place with a pleasant 'snap' (though most of the actual sounds are of low vibrations). To tell the truth, Andersson was the one behind it. Either she was extremely lucky or she has a way with magnets.

As a matter of fact, we dined together last night. This was after the tunnel had been active and isolated for a day or so, so I guess it was reasonable to assume that that's all she had on her mind; of course, it meant the world to me to actually be able to connect with her. Is it that odd that I see tunnels in her eyes? Or that maybe I'm staring into her eyes at all?

The active cut is, as I understand, likely to influence the power distribution more than any achievement the other teams are likely to procure. Dr. Seimhalt and I passed each other in one of the side corridors and he took absolutely no effort to acknowledge my existence. Maybe they are close to something, but I can't stop my own research, partly because it's not entirely my research, but also because it seems that this tunnel has a mind of its own.

All of a sudden there's a renewed interest in our department among management and other teams. I was called from land today, by some corporate decider who was 'proud of my work' and 'wished me the best of luck'. I try not to harbor ill will, and it's probably best I ignore it all anyway. I will say, though, that for me personally it's quite disconcerting to have this stable tunnel into the sixth dimension, albeit isolated, open. Of course we're afraid to close it because it'll likely be hell to open it up again, but I don't know how much I'm all right with just having something like that constantly open, as I sleep, only a mile or two below me. The fields will do their job, but sheesh, it gets to me somehow.

January, Fifteenth.

The First Januarism..

I don't feel like I'm a horrible person nor that I should be ashamed when I admit here that I am desperately afraid of my own death. Of course the act of dying isn't what I'm frightened of, it's what comes afterward, as I'm sure it is with the great many of the race that have similar fears.

Of course, it's probably not that many, now that I think about it. After you take out the devout religious folk, those that, as a part of culture, accept death without question or conflict, those that don't think enough to care, and other groups that wouldn't show up, like secular humanists that find some part of the natural world, some stratum, maybe, from which to chisel off a piece of morality and comfort regarding the state of what is greater than the universe.

What if we're just one type of intelligent creature that, in the course of finding our way to the top of the chain of planetary command, adapted using optimism towards infinity as a means to an end, and now that I find myself on top, the means are a greater hindrance than a help.

I spent nine hours of my waking day out of my room and around campus, a few of them eating, a few reading, a few playing, some time writing, walking, etc. I mean, I don't feel like I've wasted any of my time. Today was a good day, I guess. And yet when I extrapolate this... even if every day is as productive and as complete as this one (there are days more so and many more less so), I'll die having accomplished nothing and everything and everyone will forget me instantly.

It's kind of bizarre, really. The best description I've found for myself so far is (thanks to Michael Frayn for this one) an arrangement of material at a particular region of time. So basically, what's happening is that a small part of the universe is averse to changing and shifting form or melding back into the rest of it. I guess I'm a knot, and physics will undo me in time.

I'm not, though, sure that I won't come to greet my future with ambivalence or even welcome arms. Despite my angst, I probably have quite a few years left with which to conjure answers or find them should they exist already.

First Journal from the Ocean.

12 December—Neptune Station. Dr. Page and Dr. Seimhalt insist they are near to isolating the necessary frequencies for the prisms, but if you ask me, it's a load of bollocks. Come January and the station reevaluates power distribution, their department is going to receive far more than their share because the snobs in upper level management haven't the slightest idea of how to distribute power despite having so much of the stuff. To be fair, I understand where Page is coming from completely, and as a person I admire her personality and she's a hell of a conversationalist (especially on a station with only a hundred souls or so). As far as her professional career goes, though, she and Seimhalt can go fuck themselves.

My mother sent me a package today. I'm not about to mention the regulations on mailed food as long as she keeps sending those cookies. Also, father is having problems with his heart again, but from her tone it's not anything serious. Of course, that's saying nothing and I know it.

Dr. Andersson has been making significant process in operating the tunneller. I don't know whether it's her dexterity with scientific instruments or her golden, flowing hair that has attracted me to her, and I'm not going to try and find out, either.

I'm going to sleep early this circade, so I'll wrap up. We're going to retry the sixth dimension tomorrow with the tunneller and, damn it, I'm going to be there this time. Hopefully it'll work. Also, hopefully Andersson won't be there, for my sake.

-Dr. Sam Whittaker.

Postscript: I'm enclosing a photograph. This was taken using the tunneller's capture lens, and I also altered the colours a bit. What you're looking at here is one of our openings into the fifth dimension. For awhile we weren't able to take pictures because the splits weren't stable enough to last long enough to photograph them, but we've improved the stabilisers significantly. This one, if I remember correctly, lasted for two minutes before it collapsed.

Book Song..

All books in all libraries ought to be banned.
Though authors can script me to some other land,
my heart feels like tearing in two, for as sand,
with time, trickles out of the palm of your hand,
I finish my books, and, against my demand,
there are no more sequels or sentences, and
the ending was marvelous, touching and grand,
but to have to go back to the world, wake and stand,
knowing your world monotonously manned?
All books should be banned.

First Road Sign.

It's the secret of how to start a novel, and how to continue it, and how to share it.
It's the solution to world hunger and also my hunger.
It's what you possess when you have something and want nothing else.
Those types of people radiate it, so I understand.
It's in the west or the east depending on who you are.
It's on the wings of Sputnik.
It's a sequence of colours if you want it to be. I don't, though.
It's long and involved.
More often than not, it's in 4/4, which is slightly saddening.
It's your relationship, but different, and you know it.
It's under a blanket.
It's in the dictionary, and it is the dictionary.
It's agreeing with you. You're yourself. It's also chiding for that reason.
It's the sun, but only on earth.

January, Fourth.

Here's an abbreviated list of things that I would terribly like to be able to do that I currently cannot:

• play the guitar.
• sing.

One of the poltergeists that's always flying around me is that which is reminding me of my lampreyesque manner of musical relations. I'm taking, sucking, parasiting my way to enjoyment and status, yet returning nothing to the community. Of course, I will admit there's a large dose of hedonism at the base of this wish, however maybe I just want to be able to get along with people. I don't want to feel alone and I don't got nowhere else to belong.

In broader news, it just seems to me like everything is getting always better and always worse at the same time. As soon as I structure something, something falls apart. The darndest part about the whole shebang is that it's absolutely romantic nor anywhere as near as it might sound. I suppose that's been my problem with the past year or two of my life—I could probably deal with being emotionally distraught, hyperbole, deep night, hole in the wall but typing, able in spite. I can't channel Kierkegaard; I end up with no one recognizable because he's no one worth channeling. This, truly, is likely the first writing I've really done in over a week or two. Such truth is disheartening and disillusioning. I thought I could write, you know? And now not only can't I write, but I don't even want to try.

I hate starting paragraphs with 'I', but there it is. I knew I'd age and get all wiser and smarter and more aware of myself. Damn, it's not what it's cracked up to be.

In short, there is more than I care to think about riding on the outcome of the next four months. Probable outcome (negative, as could be expected), I keep on shuffling by and nothing happens that didn't happen in 2007.

Most optimistic prediction, however; well, I've slowly given up most hope of a large switch turning from 'off' to 'on', from 0 to 1, and all of a sudden 90 becomes 270 and Alaska becomes Argentina. Best I can see happening is kind of a cascade of small switches. Like, snap, and instantly Eli is focused and there's kind of a quelling of the sweeping need for the creation of new identities and names because, like, I know I can solve my problems or at least something good at one point, although presently broken, can be made excellent or marvelous.

2008 could be a year of CONTRIBUTION, also of REIGNITION and ORCHESTRATION and ME and CONSTRUCTION and GAME NIGHTS. Maybe my apathy'll focus itself.

Four days in, looking probable.

January, Second.