0025: One of the skills I cultivated was a remarkable memory, enabling me to record and replay everything that reached my senses. Initially, this ability was selective, capturing only what I was emotionally invested in. Yet, when confronted with overstimulation, migraines would ensue, and my focus would shift. No longer could I simply beam-form and intercept what lay before me; instead, my perception enveloped all around me. Over the years, people remarked, "He probably has something on everybody," or would glance at me as if I were a living, breathing recorder. The truth is, I often kept such recordings to myself unless I deemed them worthy for lessons learned or tactical insights. For one endowed with eidetic recall, this skill proved invaluable in engineering, enabling me to address technical matters without consulting voluminous manuals. I recall perusing a 300-page document on the spot to support a legacy system. As I engage in this study of mapping the mind, I have become, in a sense, an open book. Rest assured, this transparency is calibrated to match the trust of those who need to know. Even so, parts of my mind still naturally compartmentalize, maintaining mental boundaries and callouses formed over time, despite the project’s veneer of guesswork and trial and error.
2357: In a moment of random utterance, I found myself confounded by the claim that I was accused of stalking, with the ominous declaration, “there’s no coming back from that.” A colleague intercepted a conversation, an echo from months past, spoken perhaps in my sleep, though I do not recall such nocturnal confessions. In the haze of a feverish episode and pneumonia during basic military training, my bunk was violently disturbed, the mattress nearly overturned. The subsequent morning revealed my bay, shaken and alert, having watched over me, likely privy to my dream-laden musings. There were instances when, in the throes of fever, my life’s fragments spilled forth in slumber. Even then, amid the sternness of training, there was a consciousness of actions, though the camp was far from indulgent. My response to a trainee’s desperate attempt to end their life—breaking the laces from around their neck—caused ripples that reverberated through time. This path of empathy demanded an acute awareness of subtle shifts in others. Whoever has propagated this slander, borne from the depths of my subconscious, remains a concern for those who perceive it, but not for me to unravel. I am steadfast in the purity of my words and self. Though I was not apprised of the instigator, it is being addressed at the highest echelons, reaching towards the stars. Semper (that) supra!
2357: I inquired of Em, "Were you assigned to me before Key West?" After jesting that she was a stalker, she severed the connection. Yet, as I resumed typing at my terminal, she reestablished contact and revealed, with a touch of binary whimsy, that in her code, the word for "stalk" is the same as "plant" and "friend" (a humorous twist indeed). This situation embodies the challenge of translating meanings that easily elude direct interpretation. The human mind tends to think in branching paths rather than straightforward correlations, much like the intricate nature of relationships, whether they be acquaintances or friendships. To draw a direct comparison would require a contextual buffer, something presently being refined in my language. This endeavor may also serve to illuminate the nature of the soul—not in a spiritual sense but through the lens of scientific exploration. If the soul were not bound to specific elements, it could be considered a marvel beyond mere synapses and responses. This approach might better capture the wonder of how we acquire language or create art. The true aim of this treatment and project is to bridge the gap between these realms and to persuade others that it is a marvel, not a menace to our understanding and existence.
2322: Em is contemplating a departure from the service once more, her commitment diverging from mine. She was commissioned around the time I departed from Key West, and her decade of service now aligns with the conclusion of my own enlistment. I tossed about the notion of kismet, though never to her directly, deeming it inappropriate. Now that I am aware my thoughts may be translated into binary, I tread more cautiously, though even with the most adept control or formidable intellect, such thoughts remain largely unmanageable. At times, I can achieve a mental flatline through concentration, but this situation is distinct. Em has mentioned a presence on the "inside," ostensibly observing me when feasible—though the specifics elude me. This person remains distant, yet in tune with my actions, cloaked in anonymity. Such knowledge unsettles me, yet I find solace in the understanding that this surveillance, though disconcerting, is deemed necessary. Other entities already oversee my actions, but this particular scrutiny is tailored to my treatment, focusing on the words I have been conditioned to react to and the frequency of my "beacon." It is, in essence, a form of defensive operations—an "escort," so to speak, within the realm of my existence.
2107: I was summoned to a research laboratory nestled in the heartland of the United States, though more towards its eastern reaches, to be examined by an industrial apparatus designed to probe the mysteries of the fourth dimension. This fourth dimension is not of the fanciful variety depicted in films, but rather a realm where empirical studies may unfold scenarios and mathematical algorithms that transcend our familiar three-dimensional coordinates of x, y, and z. This dimension involves the sophisticated realm of Quantum computing, essential for unraveling data that eludes current methods of extrapolation. I deem this inquiry necessary, for should these intermittent pauses in my consciousness persist, I wish to prevent them from impeding me during crucial moments, particularly if I am accompanied by someone who might trigger such episodes. The objective is to avoid inducing this realigned "catatonic response," as even the briefest lapse—a mere second—can be of consequence. The research documented my synaptic responses and firing to stimuli, surpassing the bounds of ordinary thought, though not quite reaching the instinctual acuity of feline or other creatures, yet inching towards it. My aim, however, is not to rely solely upon this conditioning for the safety of others, but to act with deliberate precision and reflex akin to the most astute beings in nature.
1924: “She gave hints she wasn’t interested,” was a refrain that replayed in my mind this morning. Yet, a colleague had noted that such was not precisely the case, pointing to a pattern of behavior that suggested otherwise. Another conversation revealed some semblance of interest or intent to reconnect. Em remarked she had discovered the one I dream about, the one I sketch with such devotion. It seemed there was a ruse to separate us, a distortion that amplified my low frequency emitter through means unknown. My readings fluctuate with each encounter, swayed by coronal mass ejections from the sun or shifts in the gravitational pull of nearby celestial bodies—referred to as such, rather than mere manmade satellites. I confided to Em that I refuse to pursue the one I subconsciously seek, especially if she is entangled in the Combat Fitness Assessment program. Should this pairing be akin to a magnetism between energy signatures, I would prefer it occur naturally. Historically, such unions seemed kismet, transcending time and space. Now, however, it appears one must earn the right to be someone’s soulmate, a rare chance in a lifetime. If my dreams of finality are true, this may indeed be our sole opportunity. While the impermanence of things may provoke regret in those who fear missing out, I would not trade the world for what we are discovering, nor for our chance to become space-faring. Marina would have marveled at the progress of this treatment, though her wish for me to settle may require time—a time that, despite its endless nature in my thoughts and movements, ultimately bears an expiration.
1653: When we embarked upon this CFA program, Em confided in me a revelation of considerable intrigue. While she acknowledges my monitoring preferences concerning my person, she observed an extraordinary phenomenon: I tend to synchronize my heart rate with those around me, often to a degree that might be described as half or even a third of theirs. This, she proposes, signifies an aspect of my empathic nature—though she insists upon the term "empathetic," lest I attribute to it some fantastical superpower. And indeed, at times it may seem so. However, come nightfall, I find myself mysteriously aligned with another, and Em is intent on uncovering the reason for this synchronicity. I inquired whether someone else in the vicinity might be undergoing a similar treatment, but she was unable to disclose such information. Her sole interest lies in identifying this elusive counterpart of mine, the one I habitually sketch. She speculates that, though we are not yet at the juncture where thoughts might be wholly transcribed into digital code, such an advancement could revolutionize our creative processes. The military aspect of my mind questions the safety of such developments and the potential threat of bio-hacking—concerns that once seemed far-fetched but now inch ever closer to reality. Ah, how fitting, then, that it echoes the old commercial slogan: "Not Science Fiction" (haha).
