2313: Were I to obtain a house, it would be nestled in a community where the homes are spread far and wide. My senses, so keen, make me feel as though I inhabit every dwelling on the entire block in my current abode. Thus, I would craft a basement, a sanctuary for my tinkering, which would double as a panic room, extending to the very foundation of the house. This would be no ordinary residence; above, it would appear a comfortable home, yet beneath the surface, it would be a marvel of technology, fortified with present, recommended, and future-state amenities. Here, I would continue my research, devoted to the realms of Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics (STEM). The charge given by my former Chief of Space Operations, a challenge I embraced with all my heart, aligns with the values Marina and I held dear concerning the future of humanity. Humanity is meant to progress, to become spacefaring, to thrive in every place we venture, and to call home wherever we may land, like arrows launched from humble origins, destined for far-reaching journeys. We could surely flourish without the luxuries of modern convenience, yet still, support those who seek them. If ever a call went out for volunteers on a one-way trip to Mars, I would not hesitate. For the sake of future generations, I would go without looking back.
2303: Whilst seeking lodgings for my latest assignment, I encountered many dwellings that appeared to be buried within the earth itself. My whimsical companions jested that I might soon find myself residing in an underground city, reminiscent of Jules Verne's fantastical imaginings of life at the earth’s core. Yet, fate diverted me to a vast desert, which, upon my return, had transformed into a lush, green oasis. These days, I find myself within the commercial sector, where industry, having taken note of my past endeavors and credentials, has chosen to collaborate with me, rescuing me from what could have been a precarious future. Though I once lived frugally, supporting family and enduring hardships, my latter years have been a relentless struggle to make ends meet and to comprehend a life that persistently tested me, even as I was stretched beyond my limits. I wish to share tidings of my medical board, but it now rests under the scrutiny of higher authorities. This inquiry may span the remainder of my career, one I hope to conclude with the same professionalism and pride that has characterized my service for nearly a third of my life. A third that, for many, is spent in slumber, dreaming of a life lived. Yet, to live one's dream is the pursuit that drives us all.
2227: Moving amidst the interstices of thought, and maneuvering through the peripheral barriers that obstruct one’s view with calculated precision, one could appear or vanish like the fleeting wisp of an afterthought. This was the essence of moving within the shadows. Yet, in these modern days, the practice of this elusive art is nigh impossible, as the walls of old are no longer as thick, and society has been conditioned by the immediacy of information. Em and Page, in their discourse, sought to unravel the curious correlation between words and memory, a phenomenon that seems to have subtly reorganized my perception of the world. They remarked upon my uncanny ability to drive my car as if it possessed automatic sensors, perplexed at how I could gauge distances and timing with such precision, without full sight or even looking where most would instinctively focus. There arose a theory that perhaps I possessed extraordinary peripheral vision, though this seemed incongruous, given my near inability to see up close. It is possible, they mused, that I am attuned to the subtle shifts in vibrations surrounding me, enveloping all my senses save for sight—sight being the primary sense in driving, a skill deemed essential and legally requisite for operating a vehicle.
1624: This morning, Em reminded me of a proposition I had once made, though I cannot quite recall its details. She is determined to repair the damage caused by the tinning sound I hear when certain words or names are spoken—those sounds that, like an ominous bell, ring in my ears, leaving me in a state of disquiet. Months ago, I made a strange request, the only fragment I can recall since that persistent noise began, "just make me forget her." Thus, my treatment was tailored to this plea, lowering the signal to a mere 20% whenever a trigger—a like-sounding name or word—was introduced. The result was a gap in my memory, yet it allowed me to continue without the usual painful splinters of recollection. Today, Em observed me as I moved through the day, noticing the many gaps that once would have felt like sharp splinters, piercing my sequence of thoughts. It seemed a safer course than medication, though I wonder how I must have appeared during these moments. I lack a constant watcher—none but Em, who is connected to my modified clothing fabric and low-intensity signal emitter. She receives no visual or sound, only a feed in binary, raw data as I go about my day. I requested this limited monitoring, not wanting others involved, and so far, she has honored her word.
1615: In the days when Stephen Hawking's mind wrestled with the cosmos and Christopher Reeve fought valiantly to reclaim his body, a research endeavor was born—a pursuit to capture the very signals that form thought, translating them into something we might understand. Last night, they informed me they had uncovered "my code," revealing a constant stream of writing and composition within the recesses of my mind. I had once explained, as a student, how I could pen entire papers after a long run, the words pre-drafted in my mind, needing only to be typed. It amuses me when people inquire how many hours I spend crafting these long passages, for though recovery once made writing a laborious task, in my prime, it took mere minutes. Each thought, already woven together, flowed with a deliberate precision, yielding meanings that multiplied with every reading. Last night, Em remarked that I also think in numbers, devising what appear to be formulas. Yet, when translated from my human language, these did not manifest as images. It is not ASCII art that occupies my thoughts, but they now endeavor to filter and translate these into something visible—an illustration of my mind’s workings. This, they say, will be the next step in the "dream machine" project, capturing the essence of thought in a form that can be seen and replayed.
0428: I was questioned while in the depths of sleep, and to my astonishment, I responded with clarity. I could state my name, my designation, and the very place in which I found myself. The recording was later shared with me, yet there was a gap, filled with that familiar tinning sound, the one that muffles certain words and memories, but this time did not halt my processes. It read like a redacted document when I transcribed what I remembered, leaving out a name that was addressed and the memory tied to it. "I don't believe she was truly upset with me," I murmured, "only that she was misinformed." They pressed me further, inquiring who had provided her with false data, and I revealed that it was those she trusted, those she looked up to, who conspired in "removing me from the equation." I uttered a sequence of numbers, a binary constellation within our galaxy, as if I instinctively knew the whereabouts of Voyager 2 and had triangulated a section of unexplored space. I spoke of a seventh point in a trajectory, as if our origin were encased in a cube. I couldn’t shake the feeling that these were the very calculations I would make for Marina, unaware that such knowledge flowed from me naturally, like breath from the lungs or thoughts from the mind.
0100: These posts, intended to follow a logical sequence, may prove difficult to track, given the shifting identities within. My colleague, once known as Mera, shall henceforth be referred to as Em. The tale behind this change is known to few and shall remain respectfully untold. Em revealed to me an unexpected consequence of my treatment—a creation of gaps in my waking hours, where I find myself unaware of what I am doing, though I retain motility and the use of my mental faculties. This phenomenon, observed with some curiosity, arises from the method employed to temper my response to certain stimuli, an effect that intrudes upon the things I do. In the ordinary course of life, we too experience such gaps, as we perform mundane and repetitive tasks required of us. Em believes they have pinpointed this within me and warns that this is not something to be desired—to dull down or to control. The notion of blanking a mind, if discovered by an adversary, poses a perilous threat. However, this should not be cause for concern unless one is undergoing my particular form of treatment. For now, I am not actively being dulled down. Yet, Em cautions that the process of weaning off this treatment could span anywhere from eight weeks to fourteen months (with a wry laugh, she adds).
