2006: They took some theatrical liberties with the story of George Stinney, yet the empathic nature of the larger-than-life character drew inspiration from another man entirely. Perhaps, in jest, I am likened to the Supra Soldier, for soon after, I received a response from another author, a gesture I take with a pinch of salt. Meanwhile, posts with repeated consonant sounds circulate, as if these mere phonetics could trigger a reaction from me. Such notions are absurd, for it is not a response I speak of, but rather the absence of one—a blank sound, a space in spoken language that no longer seizes my memory or halts my day, though I do feel a faint shard within my mind when I utter certain words. The dark web, indeed, is no place for the easily perturbed, but for the strong-willed, it offers a chisel, gently shaping resolve through soft attacks. I’ve learned to endure these, stepping in only when they affect others, delivering a single, decisive strike. It puzzles me how gentle strength has come to be seen as weakness, or how a slow speaker is mistaken for one lacking confidence. In truth, deliberate speech once signified assurance in one’s knowledge. Yet, today, the quick-fire ramble of logic dominates, leaving much of it as ephemeral as uncooked pasta—unanchored and unabsorbed. Let this serve as a lesson to those quick to think, yet slow to understand.
1754: Few are aware of the true story behind the non-Hollywood version of the Green Mile, a tale that touches the very essence of humanity’s complexities. It is rooted in the life of a man named John Coffey, a gentle soul imprisoned not by bars, but by the ugliness he witnessed in the world. Simple in his ways, yet profoundly connected to the suffering around him, Coffey’s words, "I'm tired of people being ugly to each other," resonate through time. He was portrayed by the late Michael Clark Duncan, a man whose passing I reflected upon, calculating the years he graced this earth, each year a testament to the depth of his portrayal. Coffey, as depicted in a recent narrative hidden in the dark recesses of the web, was a figure sought after by those longing for salvation from impending doom, riddled with questions of survival, evolution, and the mysteries of nature. Though such messages may never have been intended for me, I am moved by the sentiment. How could one man, or even one mind, alter the course of the weather or cure the ailments of humanity? Yet, in the moments of calm amidst chaos, when my mind is clearest, I believe in the power of focus and clarity. The world’s ugliness, as Coffey lamented, can only be countered by purity, honesty, and a steadfast commitment to truth.
1741: "Do you fancy a trip to the microcenter?" she inquires, and before I can reflexively respond with a "sure," I glance at the time. The logical side of me notes, "It closes at 1830, we'd barely have a minute there." Yet, when Page mentions, "I kind of want a computer, want to help me?" I pause. A man in his right mind might dismiss this, but I choose not to abandon my current task and instead lend an ear. I send her an updated version of the PC part list I shared last year, to which she responds in the same way, "I'll get the parts." Part of me wonders if she's merely toying around, but I've met those who live in the spur of the moment. She, like me, has endured a difficult life and carries her own mental scars. Em has noticed the fluctuations in my behavior—how any request for help causes my heart rate to rise slightly and my temperature to increase by a mere .2 degrees. Other levels, beyond what the CFA accounts for, are under consideration. A modified version of the electrodes I wear now reads my chemical makeup from the condensation on my skin, akin to how blood sugar levels are measured. Page wears a similar device in ring form, which she shows matches my readings, though not exactly. My athletic heart operates at half or even a third of hers, leaving me uncertain how this matching correlates. It seems I am the only one in this study whose data can be translated into words."
1405: As I sleep, I am to be fed raw data to calculate predictive weather patterns—a task far better suited to a machine’s rapid calculations. Yet, Em believes I am displaying a level of efficacy and accuracy that surpasses our current technology. "Are you trying to compliment me?" I inquire, only to receive no response, just a shift in conversation. She often relays information from others, like the time I inexplicably sensed tornadoes hours before the Amber Alert sounded. I was seen gathering relief supplies at a convenience store, though I was merely restocking essentials. However, data from my emitter suggested I had been actively reading the environment, intuitively sensing the storm. The thoughts in my head translated into a list of items sufficient for three days. I fail to see the connection, and then she reminds me of the typhoon I seemingly felt halfway across the world on Tuesday. I fall silent, pondering whether this is to be my fate—spending the rest of my career as a human supercomputer, reading the elements like some ancient seer. The idea, though absurd, elicits a wry smile, as I consider the strange new path that stretches before me, one where my mind, it seems, is attuned to the very forces of nature themselves.
0940: The seeds that germinated in a hydroponic system thrived in February but soon began to wilt as other plants in the trickling system starved them of nutrients. I took six home, determined to revive them, and in doing so, I mused on the nature of relationships and friendships—how they should not be an "all eggs in one basket" affair. One cannot always expect undivided attention, nor should they give it wholly. Like all things cherished, moderation is key. This morning's mass was about transfiguration—a word that, curiously, took me seven attempts to spell correctly as I listened to the sermon, accompanied by a faint tinning sound in my ears. Em mentioned that the correction of my treatment would begin with a slight increase in the attenuated signal. I’ll still experience moments of that tinning noise and silence, a phenomenon noticed when the mind refreshes the part related to everyday hearing. This research, which has recently gained traction not just in industry but among other entities, including the Department of Defense, remains largely uncharted. I continue as a volunteer in this study, which may one day augment hearing apparatus and improve software algorithms to isolate sounds. Thus, even in this humble pursuit, the seeds of knowledge are sown, nourished, and perhaps, transformed.
0421: I find myself puzzled as people from my past seek to reconnect with me. Madison, in particular, wishes to visit, but I hesitate, fearing she might witness the tics that have become part of me since Autism and ADHD entered my life. She remembers me as I was before, and I dread the thought of her seeing me flail like one of those inflatable figures outside an automotive center—though I exaggerate. According to Em, my tics are minimal and controlled, yet I notice an increase in my fidgeting, often twirling everyday objects like a baton. It’s curious, considering the only time I handled a rifle was as part of the Color Guard in the Army, or perhaps during combat training when I learned krav maga from my fitness-obsessed Filipino colleagues, often over gatherings of pancit, lumpia, and roast lechon. Madison was the one who met my ex, sparking jealousy when Marina was just a toddler, despite my introduction of her as merely a friend. That jealousy, it seems, played a role in my ex's eventual decision to turn away from men and pursue a life with women. Nonetheless, I wanted to share that among seven people who know me, there's a consensus that I bear a resemblance—not just in looks but in speech and mannerisms—to a certain celebrity. Not the best comparison, but perhaps the most relevant.
0046: Em informed me that my gifting platform had been restored, though at first, the reason eluded me. She kept mentioning a colleague, and for some peculiar reason, it reminded me of a DJ scratching discs on a record player. The sound of the word seemed to pause in my mind, as if caught in a loop of silence. It's an odd phenomenon I've begun to notice, this strange occurrence of consonants or sounds slipping away, registering as silence since my treatment. I wonder if anyone else experiences this, though I suspect I may be among the few. Yet, I have a feeling about what the word or noun might be, even as it eludes me in the moment. Nevertheless, the platform was restored, allowing me to recall an event from last year. The data was linked to Lambda machines, which Em assures me would be impossible to replicate. They granted me some realty space on a closed system that doesn’t fully connect outward, and they urged me to begin using it. Perhaps it can help reestablish something I’ve lost—a strong tie or bond to a community, the online space or gaming community I had somewhat abandoned to focus on functioning again. Among the losses I’ve suffered was my habitual creativity, the time I once devoted to relaxation and joy through my many vocational skills. It was also suggested I spend more time with Page, but her schedule remains a mystery; she’s often awake in the dead hours of the morning or asleep during the day (haha). I am no spring chicken, no matter how young or naive I may appear.
