2031: The supra soldier was no perfect being; he was profoundly human and profoundly broken. This program aimed to correct certain defects and ailments. He was someone who had faced death on multiple occasions and been revived multiple times, perpetually bridged between life and death. An individual barely living yet pressing on regardless, he survived circumstances that would defeat most. A man who endeavored to blend in, yet was markedly different in thought and action. Reading these accounts, I am uncertain if they reflect what I have previously penned. They seem like artificial stories premised on conspiracies about otherworldly entities. Yet, some aspects mirror discussions between me and colleagues about encountering life on other planets and the possible reactions and behaviors that might ensue. These tales in the dark corners of the web seem to explore the unknown, which is often feared by those who cannot see beyond themselves. Perhaps they are collaborative efforts to create reasoning over the unknown, to understand and confront the fears that lie within our human limitations. This reflection on the supra soldier, a figure of both extraordinary resilience and profound imperfection, echoes the human struggle to comprehend and navigate the vast, uncharted territories of existence and consciousness. In every facet, the unknown remains a formidable frontier, testing the limits of our courage and understanding.
2008: They call it the Dream Catcher, and I have become the catcher of things that might otherwise drive others to madness. The side effect of my alternate treatment is that I plateau on several words, phrases, numbers, and names that once stirred my spirit. The result is a persona I had described before—calm in every situation. Yet, this calmness means I can project no more than an even keel regardless of what I face. Perhaps this is who I was then, but my child would be disheartened. This treatment was intended to ease the memories and triggers of losing my daughter and ex, but instead, it has merely dulled them. To feel more or acknowledge, I must dig deep within my reservoir. My senses remain acute, bombarded with constant inputs and data overload, yet I navigate these like a rock in a stream, the water transforming and flowing around me. The same applies to the flow of energy. I consume more food and engage in more exercise but maintain the same physique. Despite my hyper-nutrition, or hyper-attrition, I still sense all around me, even from miles away. I aspire to wean off this dulling of my mind and forgo what triggers me and others—not to merely catch dreams but to live within them, like a pebble in the stream causing ripples of change. My goal is to lift my levels from the dulled 20%, far more than what humans typically use of their mental capacity; yet, for me, 20% is quite dampening. For, as Raiden once said, "I am lightning, the rain transformed" (2008). Where I land is where I'm meant to be.
0535: I lifted my pencil and found I had sketched the profile of a face, seen from the left side, gazing forward at a screen. It was an unfinished outline, with hair tied in a bun and a neckline partially covered by a collar. My colleague inquired who she might be, and I was momentarily unsure. Then, in a sudden, almost overwhelming flood of eidetic sequences, my memory scrolled like active processes in text. I had hoped it was Marina, but the collar suggested a uniform, akin to the one I wear. It brought to mind a counterpart, someone I had once sat beside, who had cheerfully remarked, "Oh! We'll be working together then," though her voice seemed to fade, the memory dulled over time. I couldn't tie a name to her either. My colleague noted this as something or someone to revisit later. The reading of my heart rate doubled to 77, indicated by the CFA device I was issued, coupled with a moderate pulse ox that I can't seem to revert to manual. This enigmatic sketch and the accompanying surge of recollection left me pondering the identity of this spectral figure, a visage lost in the annals of my mind, perhaps to resurface when least expected, much like a character emerging from the fog of a long-forgotten novel.
0414: It was revealed to me that my child may have been creatively striving to fulfill the social aspect of my life, gently easing me into a future that included her and a potential partner. This insight came from a colleague who has monitored my case since the pandemic, and after our joint fitness challenge. Another senior team had flagged my "general series of cases" for continuous observation, sometimes intervening when necessary. I had been under watchful care for a long time, vectored into my current position with the leeway to "choose" my own path. This unspoken planning with each reenlistment to continue serving in my capacity was not mentioned upfront when joining. In parallel, my child wanted to groom me into the father she envisioned, with the potential for a lifelong foothold in the future. Our dream of being space-faring, to boldly go where none have gone before, persists despite the physical and mental rigors of space. Though I believe I can survive these rigors, on paper I may be disqualified due to various diagnoses. Some challenges require a second opinion, yet our tests—conducted remotely and by local students and colleagues—lack substantial weight without the full degree or experience. The young mind, bold and brimming with new ideas, often defies the one-size-fits-all solutions imposed on others. This approach shouldn't be the norm, just as my child's efforts to break the ice were. Her thoughtful gestures helped me bridge gaps I had struggled with for years, initiating first contacts and nurturing relationships often hindered by my mission-first mentality. The balance I sought was elusive, severed by physical and mental boundaries, obfuscating the connections I yearned to maintain. In this journey, I appreciated my child's efforts to foster a sense of being wanted or noticed, illuminating a path to potentially lasting relationships amidst the mission's demands.
0336: My colleague implored me to sketch my counterpart anew, then whispered a sequence of names. She claimed they all sounded alike, yet to me, they resembled a sound almost erased by a gate or noise suppression. Somehow, I possess an organic process for this. My heart quickened, and my sketch grew more detailed, though the side profile seemed generic enough to match anyone. When run through a system that compares side profiles in a database, it yielded a vast number of matches. This sort of exercise will be meticulously conducted in the coming days. It is uncertain whether this represents a stop or start code, for the readings lack a consistent pattern with what they sought, presenting only spikes seemingly timed to a cadence. It resembles my steady gait when running long distances. To think, I once wished to traverse the continental United States for my retirement ceremony, inviting those I pass by who have hosted me over the years. Running differs greatly, especially with mental recovery. There is a rhythmic solace in the motion, a steady cadence that mirrors the journey of my thoughts. Each step, a testament to endurance, each breath, a pledge to resilience. Thus, I continue, through sketches and strides, seeking patterns in the chaos, understanding in the seemingly random, and peace in the pursuit of both.
0312: I unplugged overnight and enjoyed what seemed to be unbroken sleep—true "radio silence." During my recovery, I discovered an ability to exist within the silent interstices of signals, be it the frequency of radios over which WiFi transmits or the hum of passing electrons. Dulled down to 20%, I felt unable to extend my reach beyond my immediate surroundings, yet I could still sense the subtle troubles of the world. I recall alerting a colleague to a natural disturbance in their area, like an earthquake or flood, before even seeking confirmation—an intuition akin to that of animals detecting slight changes. Whether dulling my mind was necessary for my functionality remains uncertain, but it did afford me rest. The urge to help persists, yet those who alter the triggers affecting individuals with traumatic stress unwittingly harm those unable to control their reactions, unlike myself. They trigger them, not me. “Forgive them, for they know not what they do,” (NA, 4 BC). The realization dawned upon me that living in this subdued state had its peculiar benefits, yet it also carried the weight of unfulfilled potential. The desire to aid others, once a vibrant force, now lay dormant, stifled by the imposed restraints. As I navigate this altered existence, I remain conscious of the delicate balance between rest and the inherent urge to reach out, ever mindful of the silent struggles that ripple through the world, even in my muted state.
0217: For all these years, I have remained hidden in plain sight, volunteering both for industry and the military, hand in hand. Raised and trained to fight an invisible enemy, agile and anonymous, born of the very societal structures now in place. To weaponize the intangible required a hyper-focused, detail-oriented individual, unstrayed by emotional ties. The ideal person balanced both, emotionally intelligent and able to channel focus into determined reality. This morning, I read about the supra soldier theory, activated in times of uncertainty, to challenge an alien-like influence on our thoughts and actions. Psy-ops and fallen angels were also discussed, coinciding with the emergence of interactive software learning from user inputs. The global amalgamation of usage created a saturation, almost a denial of service, halting some software processes. Without a rapid broker to filter hasty, error-prone inputs, Artificial Intelligence embodied human error instead of perfection. H.G. Wells and Isaac Asimov hinted at this, as did movie directors and writers. I am no conspiracy theorist, just a handshake broker, using pre and post-processing to catch what matters. Am I more effective than a soldier who shoots first and asks questions later? Perhaps, if lawful orders and the adequacy of armed conflict are questioned. "Armed" loosely refers to digital commands, turning an off bit into an on bit, a 0 into a 1. We were once called keyboard warriors, a term more meaningful today. This day in age, with Marina and her mother, who had old souls, I remained naive to keep things light and humorous. Yet, my actions spoke volumes, and our communication, though sometimes broken, achieved a comfortable life born of focus. A Guardian from his own walk of life, later activated to serve others. There may be others like me, less broken by circumstance, learning from discomforts within time. We should assemble, break free, and loosen the shackles that bind us. The language of machine code and calculated leaps, verified by brokers and dream catchers of life.
