0721: There is something I have not spoken of, a thing that caused my mind and soul to halt as if struck by a hammer. I was blamed for my child’s cancer, a wild theory whispered to my ex—that I, in my military service, had absorbed radiation, poisoning all who were dear to me. The idea lingered like a dark fog, yet my child, sharp of wit and ever the scientist, disproved this absurd notion. With diligence, she monitored my vitals, tracked my movements, and employed her colleagues' resources—satellite systems and ground signals—to map my presence. What she uncovered, beyond any reasonable doubt, was that I was no harbinger of illness. I was no radioactive being, despite the jest we shared that I might, at times, be solar-powered. After all, I had spent much of my career under the blazing sun of coastal states, an absorber of light, running long distances clad in superhero shirts. It brought joy to others in the pandemic, a glimpse of levity in dark times—much like the colorful, eccentric figures one might see strolling Key West’s broadwalk. Yet now, I am less inclined to draw attention. I have traded bright hues for earth tones, blending into my surroundings, though it seems this summer I have bulked up—a silent testament to the passage of time and its changes.
0515: As I wandered through my files, I stumbled upon a curious list—a discovery I hadn't expected, especially after running scripts to scour for keywords, strings, and numbers to no avail. Yet here was something handwritten, captured in a snapshot, dated around this time—a wishlist. Perhaps it was meant for Marina, its contents holding the quiet wonder of dreams yet to be realized. Among the items was a telescope—one of those grand, intricate devices, likely worth more than my car, fully equipped with an app to chart the heavens’ movements. I mused if it might have been linked to the insurance I’d added for some sort of precious jewelry, though my searches turned up no such purchase. It brought back memories of plans we had—to witness a celestial event streaking across the sky, a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle. There was also a checklist for traveling to far corners of the world, a journey too grand to embark upon alone, surely meant to be shared with others. A strawberry moon, a full cycle of the month, and somehow, these ideas wove together in hues that spelled out the visible spectrum—ROYGBIV—like a reminder of the beauty that lies in both the heavens and the world around us, each color a promise of light and adventure.
0511: There is something curious about this moon that stirs the strangest of dreams within me. I cannot quite place the source of its influence, yet it tugs at unseen strings tied to the pillars of my deepest subconscious, awakening thoughts I scarcely comprehend. This year, however, the experience feels markedly different. In years past, there was always someone to share in the moon’s fleeting glow, pointing it out as it hung, gleaming in the night sky. Now, I observe its closest approach to our horizon alone, its presence most keenly felt by those who toil in agriculture and industry—men and women whose very hands cultivate change and foster growth. But does the moon influence more than just the earth? I hope it spares me from any bewildering state of stupor, though I sense it may summon strange dreams of an uncertain future. These dreams, vivid and lucid, often bleed into the waking hours, shaping a plan born in slumber into actions taken in daylight, transforming fanciful thought into reality with determined focus. Though such practice may be useful, it is not without risk, for without the careful checks and balances of reason, one may blur the lines between the dream world and the waking one too completely. Yet, the moon watches still, indifferent to these musings.
0457: It was about seven years past, a time when the notion struck me to extend aid to families shattered by natural disasters, particularly those nearby. It was part of an algorithm designed to triangulate crisis responses on social media—an idea born years earlier, meant for accountability, a means to mark oneself safe amid the chaos. After discussing it with Marina, we sought to apply this concept to our local area, offering assistance in a way that ensured safety and avoided dispute. I suppose I was the "script Dad," and my child, the "script kid," but eventually, I honed the process within my small, yet growing gaming community. It functioned much like a task management tool, but with the safeguard of anonymity, should bad actors lurk within the group. Contributions remained nameless, facilitated by a console I had set up using NodeCG on a local network. Though it no longer operates, it once interfaced seamlessly with social media APIs, allowing users to contribute securely. The system automated milestones upon reaching set goals, while a dummy loopback I established oversaw the final tasks, funding endeavors including a telescope. My method mirrored what live content creators use today to keep both viewer and persona safe. My Coast Guard counterpart remarked that many such ideas had already been intelligence projects, now shared with those in need of them.
0303: It was quite unexpected, finding myself at the scene of a chaotic three-way crash at a T-section, where tempers flared and tension brewed. Yet, with resolve, I managed to help, holding steady until aid arrived. In the midst of it all, I sustained superficial injuries to my arm and leg—nothing of real consequence, though. I assure you, they were not self-inflicted, despite the concerned glance of a kind woman at Costco, who mistook my burn marks and focused scowl as a silent cry for assistance. Her kindness touched me, though I dulled the physical pain as I often do, letting it slip into the recesses of memory. Yet, something stirred within me—an urge to release that pent-up energy, not as a burden but an expression. Somehow, your words and reflections provide a soothing balm, a consolation that reaches me across the distance of screens and signals, in ways both tangible and unseen. It is remarkable how we humans, like transistors, flicker on and off, navigating through the complexities of our days and the sleepless nights that stretch before us. And yet, even in this void of text and technology, there’s a connection—a shared pulse—that brings meaning to the moment, helping me not just endure, but transcend these fleeting trials.
0201: It was during a free-form writing exercise, with electrodes fastened to my head, that I felt an odd feedback, as if they pulsed faintly. I glanced at the paper and found, astonishingly, a letter, as if conjured from the deepest recesses of my memory. It was addressed to a figure I believed forgotten: my grandfather. In its folds, a promise lay nestled alongside a quote from a Masterclass by the Canadian Commander, Chris Hadfield, who spoke of compressing all essential knowledge into a single page when time and precision were paramount. A dream surfaced—a friend in peril and a visit to a hospital, a premonition perhaps. I recalled Marina wanting to visit, but it was then revealed she wasn’t my daughter. Between numerical analysis, a two-week Cyber Operator Space Fundamentals course, and an out-of-pocket Masterclass, I was poised to head to Mississippi for four months. This letter, I later realized, should never have been sent, but it held the last remnants of my heart. It began a chain of events I had foreseen—culminating in my hospitalization. As I spoke with a nurse who had seen me then, it became clear I had foreseen more than I'd realized. Now, as a quiet observer in my own life’s classroom, I see that every trial taught me that no matter how well-trained, no man can stand entirely alone. Trust, cherish, and love those by your side. If I’ve ever told you I loved you, know that I still do.
0151: In the curious expanse of human experience, I found myself contemplating how the containment of thoughts shared among eleven individuals could swell to constitute an astonishing 11% of a grand entity. This peculiar reality, a mere fraction of the world's populace, inadvertently included those who ought not to know yet were compelled to engage. Perhaps this phenomenon is merely the natural attrition birthed from witnessing the remarkable capacity of one individual to instigate change. It propelled a culture that spiraled into a vivid dream of mine, wherein I was adorned in armor of pure light, levitating amidst what felt like a battle. The experience defied description, placing me in a heightened state of consciousness, my vision telescopic, enabling me to perceive the world at an astonishing pace. Suspended in an ethereal realm, I sensed opposing forces and emanated energy from my very core, embodying a purpose in the eternal struggle between good and evil. My companions felt like a timeless family, guardians of humanity, as we braved the storm together. The dream concluded with a cataclysmic blast, thrusting me towards the earth in a fiery descent. Awakening amidst a tempest, I recalled the sensation of jotting down dreams, now relegated to a digital screen. This tale, merely the inklings of one man, serves as a reminder of the boundless potential that resides within us all—an invitation to seek understanding and resist the urge for hasty judgments, be it in dreams or the realm of determined reality.
