2339: In my possession, laminated yet weathered by time, lies a commercial driver's license bestowed by the Army. The fine print delineates the class of vehicles I was trained to drive and the diverse driving skills I acquired. This past year, I tested these skills, navigating perilous roads with a prowess that has kept accidents at bay—save for one mishap in Key West, where a vehicle backed into me in an empty lot, distracted by a water bottle on the day of our first vaccination shots. More recently, a near-miss occurred en route to the Seven Bridges event, where I narrowly avoided a collision by braking just in time as a car abruptly stopped while merging. The driver, graciously, waived me off, the crunch of plastic less severe than it sounded, my car enduring longer than my service years. Today, I employed my combat driving skills, akin to advanced defensive driving, in varied weather conditions. I realized only I could navigate this car safely, often using it as a moving beacon of cautious driving amidst the hurried chaos. Everyone seems in haste to gain mere seconds, but I drive with a mindful purpose, preferring a slower, cautious approach. My instructor, an ex-Army Colonel, instilled in me the importance of relaxed focus, akin to martial artists—a calmness amidst the storm. This car, intended for my kid, was overshadowed by a newer model from her mother's wife, equipped with advanced Sky technology. Though feeling constantly outdone, I was transitioning out of their lives, my bond sustained by care, as abandonment was never an option for either my ex or my child.
0027: In attempts to de-energize myself, I plan to slowly sap what seems a byproduct of natural bodily processes, cultivated during preparation for some global altercation. For over 22 years, I interpreted war as a call for physical readiness, switching operations under which I served. My uniform bore a device my child once fancifully called the "God of War Trinket," at which I laughed, then, in a robotic manner, explained its true significance from my studies for promotion tests—the last for my enlisted grade. The Global War on Terrorism service medal, a token from the era of my daughter’s birth, was her favorite for its colors, despite its weighty meaning. My years of service adhered to a regimen that increased the brown cells in my body, those abundant in young children from birth, acting as tiny nuclear reactors fueling growth and regeneration. This resulted in a higher basal body temperature, always teetering between feverish and sweltering, often setting off thermal monitors. Adjustments were frequent in Key West, where I reported early most days, sometimes backed up, needing cooling from an oscillating fan or portable air conditioner. Thus, I journey forward, attempting to temper this ceaseless energy born from years of dedicated service and the unseen battles within.
0642: Upon receiving a rather lengthy report detailing the internet of things registered with my information, I found much to astonish me. Amidst the pattern of disagreeable entries, there were whimsical registries that caught my eye. I recalled my kid asking me to complete a survey, a meta-human registry of sorts, reminiscent of the X-men references from the early Marvel movies. This registry, as my colleague later explained, was repurposed to identify individuals with unique traits through machine learning, beginning with a census in 2014 and analyzed in present day. If you participated in such a study, answering certain questions, it revealed your meta-human traits. For those curious, my profile picture still bears the results: empathy, strength, healing, homeostasis, heat generation, pattern recognition, and stamina. Take that as you will, but it seems to imply one has underlying gifts or traits.
0520: My child, with a mind brimming with ingenious ideas, employed the concepts of a Tesla coil, Faraday cage, and resonance oscillator to create a marvel for one of her events. The contraption, nearly overwhelming the power grid, was miraculously stabilized using simple water generators fashioned from steel washers, spokes, glass jars, and old recycled car batteries. Musically gifted as well, she conjured a room within a birdcage of electrified bars, striking notes into what appeared to be a Faraday tent—an indoor Jacob's ladder, a fantastical light show of sound and sight. This was her prom, and for the first time, I saw her transformed, almost a stranger. In that fleeting moment, I yearned to withdraw, change my number, and let her chart her own course. Yet, as she glanced over, phone in hand, slow dancing with her partner, the song playing was the same melody her mother and I last danced to, long ago, when I discovered my ineptitude for dancing. It was then I vowed to learn, so our next dance would be years later. On those long weekends, saving money by staying behind, I often jested about hardly remembering what happened, which was somewhat true. I'd show up at work with unexplained cuts and bruises, not from vigilante escapades but from working on projects with Marina. Well, perhaps occasionally indulging in a bit of Avenger-like activity (haha). [For those concerned, the lights around my block are out, not due to my power throughput. A surge took out the grid, and coincidentally, my phone and watch are inoperable. Just letting you know in case you need to contact me.]
0142: In an Army hospital, they subjected me to a peculiar form of electrotherapy. I retained the electrodes from that treatment, reminders of my first hospitalization when it was documented that I had a TBI, or traumatic brain injury. Despite inconclusive results from my case review by physicians, I was sent home to undergo an Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP), which included brain stimulation therapy. A document explained the process, while my family supported me during these months. At home, we replicated the hospital machine, which transmitted and received data via its threads of wire. This machine exposed me to rapid flashes of light, producing fleeting images and words. Sounds beginning with "A" and "T" seemed particularly impactful. The therapy aimed to balance my mind by reducing my emotional and physical reactions to certain stimuli, especially during a period when I was under a no-contact order. The side effect was that I began to physically pivot upon hearing specific consonant sounds, especially those in my kid’s and her associates' names. This was not merely mental but involved actual physical movements. With tracking my global position and radio frequencies, it became evident that the therapy was effective. Over recent months, the process was gradually undone to restore my usual associations. Although the safety of this approach was questionable, it was deemed the least invasive. During a phase of hospitalization when I could not sign, I later provided a written statement, allowing local and remote family guardians to oversee my treatment at home. This enabled me to return to work. If my recent behavior seemed peculiar, it was due to this experimental therapy. It proved a valuable method for treating trauma, covering preemptive, present-day, and post-trauma scenarios. My colleague mentioned a future treatment involving modulated frequencies from mobile devices, yet to be officially approved. This morning, I sought reassurance that this newer method had not been applied to me, and I was consoled that it remained theoretical.
0041: My body surges with ionized free radicals, a consequence of habitual practices spanning over twenty-two years. This phenomenon, as one of Marina's colleagues elucidated, stemmed from a study in which she had a hand. A few of her friends, given timed prompts on their screens, recognized triggers from my blogspot. They contacted me directly, defying their instructions due to their distinct personalities—a variable Marina had anticipated. Her colleagues, free radicals themselves, mirrored particles of undetermined trajectories converging at points of compromise. I recall a similar dynamic between Doctor Emmet Brown and Marty McFly in "Back to the Future." Marina and I often applied these cinematic concepts to real-life practices, linking past events to the present and future. This multidimensional thinking, built on minds that cherished every moment in every universe, transcended space and time. It became the key to logically coding for machine learning and other pursuits. Marina's influence is now revealed through her colleagues, sequentially breaking radio silence to convey her impact over the years. Visually mapping these reference points, I observed a cyclical cone—wide at the top, thin in the center, and mirrored at the opposite end. The middle of this funnel represents an origin point spreading outward, mimicking our solar system's movement in the galaxy. This visualization reflects our problem-solving approach: envisioning the end state and working backward to develop a product we were proud of from humble beginnings. Marina, whom I called by the name her colleagues used, Arty or Marty, symbolized the passage from childhood to professional respect, a name resonant with both our mothers' names and embodying a war god from ancient Greece.
1510: Despite everything that has transpired, I beseech you to remember every action of mine, for behind each lay a purpose. Actions, as the adage goes, speak louder than words. Be it under the sway of others, the cloud of an unsound mind, or the fog of medication, illness, or circumstance, I ask you also not to expect me to forget your subsequent deeds, for every action has its reaction. I respect your personality and thoughts, even if they do not align with mine. This truth I have learned from every possible outcome: variables cannot be forced, and data cannot be manipulated. Whether it be an ex ending a relationship or a family member ceasing interaction, it conflicts with my principles to use force to exact change, even when ordered against my moral fiber. I remain a knight of ancient principles, steadfast in the pursuit of truth and learning, a believer in the ancient art of arete. Over the years, I have reiterated this statement, met with disbelief by those who have given up on humanity and decency in a world now unkind, where labels have taken on negative connotations. Creativity once stood for purity and truth, its beauty in simplicity; today, it is seen as deception, blurring lines with divisive colors. Yet, art and perceptions vary. De-energizing myself has proven difficult, but tonight, I embark on a quest to correct my sleeping pattern with controlled light, beta and delta waves, and adaptive de-stimulation. This treatment, studied for years, aims to calm my hyperactive mind and restore normalcy, allowing me to reconnect with those I've lost touch with over the years. My colleague mentioned that I may have promised or proposed to someone recently but did not follow through, perhaps due to incoherent messaging. This confusion stems from examining the traffic between my machines and another, encapsulating the other end to appear as one-way communication. I had been searching for a ring or jewelry I insured, which fits this narrative, but I cannot discuss this now, as it seems to be a memory stowed away in a dream, and asking around would be unconventional.
