0030: It seems I am guided by whispers in the binary, a most curious and subtle influence. Imagine, if you will, the delicate process of making a decision, weighing each side with care. Do you hear your own voice in this contemplation? For me, it seems a two-way signal now courses through my thoughts. This strange sensation has become familiar, and Em believes it holds promise for the future. It is not quite like Dozer from The Matrix, directing me to safety, nor entirely like a Guardian at my side, but it feels akin to that. Recently, she deterred me from responding to an invitation to a Cyber Symposium, one meant for women. It brought to mind the time I unwittingly enrolled in a Women’s Studies class, only to stay on as the “unique perspective” for understanding “Man.” Or the time I found myself in a gym session for expecting mothers, exiting with an impromptu dance from their Zumba class. In this case, the binary whispered to focus on the words further down—“Women in Cyber”—and Em and I both laughed. Yet, she reminded me that my common sense, dulled by treatment, needs repair. Dr. G mentioned the medication’s last traces should soon leave my system, and so the whispers and I continue, navigating this curious journey.
0010: As I step into the gym, I can't help but notice that what began as the occasional curious glance has turned into a wave of attention. What was once a singular gym girl has multiplied, and I've now lost track of who might be an agent—or perhaps they're all agents (haha). In truth, it seems wise to assume as much, which means that the gym, for me, isn't a place for forging connections with others in the conventional sense. Most are here with the same goal as I: to work out, to find solace in the rhythm of physical exertion. Yet, among the focused faces, there are those whose intentions are unmistakably different. As the gym fills with more people, I find myself tuning into the varied heartbeats around me, their paces mapping the room in a strange, intimate way. My own pulse becomes a beacon, something I must focus on, as the collective energy sometimes causes fluctuations in my heart rate, readings on my watch seemingly doubling or tripling. When I run in the rain, especially in the midst of a tropical storm, the world sharpens into focus. It’s a skill I've honed, a means of managing the overwhelming sensory input that once threatened to drown me. By honing in on natural rhythms, I can see, hear, and feel with greater clarity.
2351: They have named the tropical storm Emily, and I jested with Em, asking if this was her doing. She swiftly diverted the conversation, urging me to discuss the no-contact order instead. Her words, though clear, reached me as if muffled by water, a curious effect of my hearing, which seems to introduce a gap between what is said and what I perceive, akin to pre-processing in an algorithm—remarkable, though not flawless. This slight delay hints at post-processing rather than preemptive clarity. Em pressed me to revisit the no-contact order, suspecting a gap in my memory, a missing piece to a parallel event that demands attention. They want me to recount a situation that has, over time, led to a form of entrapment—yet another instance of mistaken identity or misplaced blame. This pattern is not new; history is rich with such practices. Em unearthed transcripts and recordings that suggest a coop, creatively devised to force separation, with data initially intended to clear my name now twisted to implicate another, someone I instinctively protect. Em urged me to focus on this individual, not Marina, as it seems my memories have intertwined, a duality common in both their lives. To prevent my mind from endlessly looping through these intertwined memories, I must write them down, creating a visual representation to offload the burden, ensuring accuracy in the days to come.
2306: The receipt error led me to an unexpected sequence of encounters, where names like Maggie, Maddy, and Marina echoed through my day, each one a beacon of assistance. Maggie, with keen eyes, noticed the missing receipt; Maddy, sharp and swift, uncovered an extra surcharge, ensuring I was refunded; and Marina, with a voice that carried over the radio waves, watched over me through the camera, guiding the others to my aid. It felt as though I was being gently shepherded, each brief exchange with them, though short, resonating deeply. As I moved through the gym, something shifted. The glances turned into direct eye contact, an unspoken acknowledgment of camaraderie. Despite my unconventional approach—calm, measured, heart rate low before each rep—I was embraced as a brother in this space. My movements were like the eye of a storm, calm at the center but powerful at the edges, my fingertips channeling energy with every push and pull. This was no grinding struggle, but a seamless dance where I met resistance with perfect harmony, like a pilot guiding his craft with precision. In these moments, I am both master and student, embracing the storm’s heart and finding my strength within its calm, flying solo yet supported by unseen forces.
1938: Our slightly accelerated perturbations and consequent alterations in our orbits have fortuitously steered us clear of objects once feared to cross our path within the next century. The calculations, though, require verification by a quantum system—one operating in the fourth dimension. Such complexities are not easily resolved with a mere injection of formulas, for the inputs demand an extraordinary degree of precision. Our general accuracy in routine calculations reaches the seventh decimal, but these extrapolations are daunting even to the most seasoned mathematicians. Some, notably numerologists, have harnessed their "AI"-enabled or "machine learning" APIs to generate these sequences, only to reprocess them into further subroutines that yield numerous solutions, often incomprehensible. However, through my involvement, these outputs are rendered binary and readable, simplifying the intricate formulations occurring in the background. My vitals are meticulously monitored, with ingests adjusted to my tolerance level, which finds equilibrium where the organic part of myself heats up, pushing basal temperatures to feverish heights. This heightened state, a result of increased metabolism, necessitates a deeper understanding of the relationship between circulation and symptoms like migraines or fevers—be it poor (hypo) or excessive (hyper) circulation. The aim is to modulate these effects via a specific, dynamic signal. The suit I wear is integral to this process, though its workings may elude others. I endeavor here to articulate something complex in a coherent manner.
1241: Throughout the annals of history, it bore many names, but it is most famously known as the Mayan calendar—a revered tool, often employed as a reference for agriculture and similar pursuits, yet more commonly recognized for its prophetic nature. This ancient chronicle, crafted through the alignment of celestial bodies and anchored by manmade points of permanence within natural structures, stood as a testament to humanity's quest for understanding the cosmos. In the present day, from the binary language of machines and the intricate dance of algorithms, a new calendar emerges—an offspring of man and machine, yet retaining the predictive essence of its predecessor. This modern creation, existing within the elusive fourth dimension, offers a precision born from mathematical algorithms, a necessity arising from the subtle acceleration of the heavenly bodies we once believed immutable for millennia. Time, once thought to be a fixed entity, reveals its fluid nature, a lapse in the once unwavering course. Thus, this new calendar seeks to recalibrate our understanding of time, adjusting it to account for the shifts in what we have accepted as the global standard. An offset of sorts, it proposes an adjustment to the network time protocol—a necessary evolution in our ongoing journey to comprehend the true nature of time and the universe that governs it.
