Wake up.
Who am I? Why am I here? I know what this place is called. It's a hospital. I'm in a bed. It's so bright in here. I don't know why it's so bright, but I don't think it's supposed to be so bright. Someone just walked in the room and they look really excited that I'm awake. I think she must be a nurse. She looks pretty frazzled and well worked. I think nurses work really hard. More people are coming in now. They're saying a name. "Clara." Is that who I am? Why can't I seem to say anything. I think I'm choking. I think I'm crying. There's definitely something wet on my face. I don't think I even know these people. They seem to know me. They keep saying that name.
"Am I Clara?"
They seem really worried now. And scared. There's whispering and they left. I feel so alone. I felt comforted when they were here. I don't know who I am or where my family is. Could that have been my family? That's ridiculous. I don't remember those people at all. But I can't remember myself either. I'm not even sure I know what I look like. My hair is brown? Or maybe it's blonde. No, I'm looking at it now, it's definitely black. This is all so weird. Wouldn't you think someone named Clara would have lighter hair? Who would name a black haired baby Clara? Maybe I didn't have hair when I was born. Or maybe I dye it. I would have to see the roots to really know. Why do I care what my natural hair color is?! I don't even remember my last name. I sure hope those people weren't my family. I'd sure hope I'd at least remember my family! But I don't even remember my own name. This is so surreal. What even happened to me? I don't remember anything, but I feel exhausted. I wonder if I was asleep for a long time. They're coming back in the room now. I don't know what to say to them.
"I'm sorry."
They're crying. Well, at least the woman I thought was the nurse is. Is that my mother? Could that be my mother? She looks too young to be my mother. I feel like I must be at least 30. That woman looks like she's in her late 40s. How old am I? How can I not even know how old I am. I feel so old. But I think 30 is old, so I must not be 30. Who on earth am I? Oh, there's a doctor stepping forward now. He better be a doctor and not my dad. He has some sort of chart. Amnesia. Yeah, I could have told me that.
"What happened to me?"
Car accident? Well apparently I'm at least old enough to drive because no one seems shocked that I was driving. If I got in a crash maybe I'm young and reckless. Oh. Drunk drive, other guy's fault. Well that sucks. I was coming home to visit my family. I must be in college or something. That would certainly make sense. At least I'm not dead, but this sure sucks. I feel like I'm trapped inside my mind somewhere and I can't get out. Even I don't know where I really am. Geeze that sounds philosophical. I sure hope I'm not a philosophy major. That stuff seems too deep for me. But maybe it isn't. Maybe I love it. When you have amnesia, can things you love seem foreign to you? Well, it must be possible because I'm sure I love my family if I was coming home to see them and they all seem completely foreign to me. But then again, maybe they were forcing me to come home and I really hate them all. But that doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right. This is all so exhausting and is getting me no where. I'll figure it out tomorrow. Right now, I'm so tired I just need to...
Sleep.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
My World
I made this world, my world, for them, that they would enjoy it and that they would thank and praise me for what I had done for them. But they don't even know that I exist. I've sent them so many signs, so many messages. I have even showed myself in person, told them directly that I love them, showed them what my love is. Still they ignore me. I taught them by example how to live, the secrets to true joy and happiness. They think their way is better. They forget and ignore me.
They don't want my way because my way seems hard to them. They don't realize how draining and difficult their way is. They think they know better how they were designed to live. They forget that I was the one who designed them in the first place. They make things of their own design and get angry when those things don't act right, don't do what they are meant to do. The things they create break and they try to fix them, but yet they won't let me fix them, my creation.
They want to be loved by those they care for, and yet they show me no love. I not only care for them, I made them, I designed them. That desire for love that they have, I put that there to begin with. Don't they realize I want it, too? Don't they realize I have a plan for each of them?
They think they are better on their own. They think they understand. Some even think they understand me, but they don't. They think no one can possibly understand them, though they are simple beings, and yet they presume to know me. I have revealed myself to them, but the full extend of my will is unknowable. I have shown them time and time again that I know what I am doing, and that I am looking out for them, but still they won't trust me. They turn to their own ways. They turn to the very things that are hurting them so much. If they would just let me work my desired purpose through them, they would see what their lives were meant to be. I made them. I designed them. I made this world for them, and another even better if they would just accept the offer I give to them.
I love my people, my creation. I love each and every one of them that has been and is and ever will be. I know all their futures. I know the choices they will make and I know the choices they should make. Still, I reach out to them and beg them to do things my way, the right way, the way it was designed to be. If they would listen, they would know what freedom and happiness and love really are. But I did not design them to be forced to do my will. I offer freely, and they must accept. They must see and open their hearts. I want them all to come to know the truth. And it starts with just one.
If just one will see and know and accept and understand what I am trying to say, what I have been trying to say all these years, then it can spread. If you know the truth, if you have the secret to true happiness, it has to spread. That one person has those they love and each of those has others they love, and that's how it begins. That's how the truth spreads.
I love you. Will you love me? Will you accept my call to be the start of something wonderful?
They don't want my way because my way seems hard to them. They don't realize how draining and difficult their way is. They think they know better how they were designed to live. They forget that I was the one who designed them in the first place. They make things of their own design and get angry when those things don't act right, don't do what they are meant to do. The things they create break and they try to fix them, but yet they won't let me fix them, my creation.
They want to be loved by those they care for, and yet they show me no love. I not only care for them, I made them, I designed them. That desire for love that they have, I put that there to begin with. Don't they realize I want it, too? Don't they realize I have a plan for each of them?
They think they are better on their own. They think they understand. Some even think they understand me, but they don't. They think no one can possibly understand them, though they are simple beings, and yet they presume to know me. I have revealed myself to them, but the full extend of my will is unknowable. I have shown them time and time again that I know what I am doing, and that I am looking out for them, but still they won't trust me. They turn to their own ways. They turn to the very things that are hurting them so much. If they would just let me work my desired purpose through them, they would see what their lives were meant to be. I made them. I designed them. I made this world for them, and another even better if they would just accept the offer I give to them.
I love my people, my creation. I love each and every one of them that has been and is and ever will be. I know all their futures. I know the choices they will make and I know the choices they should make. Still, I reach out to them and beg them to do things my way, the right way, the way it was designed to be. If they would listen, they would know what freedom and happiness and love really are. But I did not design them to be forced to do my will. I offer freely, and they must accept. They must see and open their hearts. I want them all to come to know the truth. And it starts with just one.
If just one will see and know and accept and understand what I am trying to say, what I have been trying to say all these years, then it can spread. If you know the truth, if you have the secret to true happiness, it has to spread. That one person has those they love and each of those has others they love, and that's how it begins. That's how the truth spreads.
I love you. Will you love me? Will you accept my call to be the start of something wonderful?
Monday, September 5, 2011
Princess
The sun still rises. 293 days trapped in this tower and the sun still rises. My mother used to tell me that someday my prince would come. I'm not even sure if I want him to, considering it was my mother's prince who put me here.
296 days since my mother died. She fell off a horse and broke her neck, or so the clerics said. There was nothing they could do for her. I had to be seen at her funeral, but as soon as it was done, he locked me away.
The first few weeks were the worst. I didn't know what he meant to do with me, feared he would have me killed as I feared he had my mother. Once enough time passed, I knew I was just going to be stuck here.
They give me food and water. Good food and fresh water at that. It is clear they don't mean to kill me. I think they are keeping me to be married. I'm nearly 17, so it must be coming soon. I wondered if he meant to marry me himself, and was just waiting for enough time to pass since my mother's death, but the mourning period is long past now, so I must be intended for another.
I never liked him that much even before. I don't know why the realm still cheers for him. I hear them sometimes, from way up here. He has had a tourney just a few weeks passed, probably to symbolize that he is officially out of mourning. I was not in attendance of course. He probably figured it was still close enough to mother's death that it could be said I was still in mourning even if her husband was not. After all, we women are a weak sex and cannot recover from grief so quickly as our male counterparts.
293 days. I keep count carefully to keep myself from going crazy. I try to hope that there will be a prince yet for me, a true, good prince, but it seems unlikely. The realm has forgotten me, and never cared all that much about me even when they remembered me. It was my mother they had loved, and then the prince she married. They never loved me and they had completely forgotten my father even existed long ago.
I am a princess, but I don't feel like one. Of course, I've never met another princess so I never know what I ought to feel like. My mother was already a queen when I was born and I have no other siblings. It really is surprising that I am still alive. Maybe I am not entirely forgotten even now.
Or maybe I am still alive because I am forgotten. Maybe I only live because this great king told the servants to bring me food and water every day and never told them to stop. Either way it doesn't matter. I just sit here and watch the sun rise out of one window and set out of the other. Anything else is meaningless. I wish I weren't a princess.
Is there a point to all of this? No, not really. I write my thoughts only to keep myself sane. I have no requests or wisdom to share or anything like that. I don't know if anyone will ever even find this diary. I certainly hope the king does not, at least not while I still live. I suppose I do want someone to know the truth: that I am still here, and I am still the princess, even if it is hundreds of years and my name is long forgotten before they realize it. I am a princess and someday, my mother promised me, my prince will come.
296 days since my mother died. She fell off a horse and broke her neck, or so the clerics said. There was nothing they could do for her. I had to be seen at her funeral, but as soon as it was done, he locked me away.
The first few weeks were the worst. I didn't know what he meant to do with me, feared he would have me killed as I feared he had my mother. Once enough time passed, I knew I was just going to be stuck here.
They give me food and water. Good food and fresh water at that. It is clear they don't mean to kill me. I think they are keeping me to be married. I'm nearly 17, so it must be coming soon. I wondered if he meant to marry me himself, and was just waiting for enough time to pass since my mother's death, but the mourning period is long past now, so I must be intended for another.
I never liked him that much even before. I don't know why the realm still cheers for him. I hear them sometimes, from way up here. He has had a tourney just a few weeks passed, probably to symbolize that he is officially out of mourning. I was not in attendance of course. He probably figured it was still close enough to mother's death that it could be said I was still in mourning even if her husband was not. After all, we women are a weak sex and cannot recover from grief so quickly as our male counterparts.
293 days. I keep count carefully to keep myself from going crazy. I try to hope that there will be a prince yet for me, a true, good prince, but it seems unlikely. The realm has forgotten me, and never cared all that much about me even when they remembered me. It was my mother they had loved, and then the prince she married. They never loved me and they had completely forgotten my father even existed long ago.
I am a princess, but I don't feel like one. Of course, I've never met another princess so I never know what I ought to feel like. My mother was already a queen when I was born and I have no other siblings. It really is surprising that I am still alive. Maybe I am not entirely forgotten even now.
Or maybe I am still alive because I am forgotten. Maybe I only live because this great king told the servants to bring me food and water every day and never told them to stop. Either way it doesn't matter. I just sit here and watch the sun rise out of one window and set out of the other. Anything else is meaningless. I wish I weren't a princess.
Is there a point to all of this? No, not really. I write my thoughts only to keep myself sane. I have no requests or wisdom to share or anything like that. I don't know if anyone will ever even find this diary. I certainly hope the king does not, at least not while I still live. I suppose I do want someone to know the truth: that I am still here, and I am still the princess, even if it is hundreds of years and my name is long forgotten before they realize it. I am a princess and someday, my mother promised me, my prince will come.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Redemption
Sometimes I still have the dreams. Even after five years, sometimes I still see it while I'm sleeping, the face of the life we took. When that happens, I open my eyes and I tell myself that it was wrong, but there's nothing I can do now to change it. All I can do is try to make other things right. And at least these dreams that I dream now aren't real.
It was hard not to blame myself, and even knowing that I wasn't the only one to blame didn't make it any easier. After all, I was the only one who realized what we were doing in time that I could have stopped it. It took time to realize, but now I know that even as horrible as what we did, what I did, was, there was something to be gained from it. That creature, that good, pure guardian, did not die in vain.
Telling the others what I knew helped. It wasn't something I could keep bottled inside. It was strange to think that I was the only one who knew, truly knew, the fullness of what we had done, that knew for a fact that we had destroyed something good. I don't know what they really thought about what I told them. One didn't seem to care, another was quiet as always, the third really seemed to take it to heart. I thought I knew and loved him once, but time changes good feelings as well as bad.
Whatever they've done with their knowledge, I've done my best to find redemption. What I've realized recently is that I never truly will find it, but still I try to do what's right. That's why I volunteer at the animal shelter and why I help coach soccer for the elementary school kids. That's why I give all I can on the field and even more when the game is over. That's why I talk to the kids and try to help them. That's why I'm going to be a teacher one day.
I know I won't fix everything, and things still would have been better if we hadn't made the mistake we did, but that's really all it was: a mistake. Saying anything more or less isn't going to fix it; nothing will bring him back. I have to live with what I did, but he wouldn't want me to do anything else. I know that it, he, whatever would want me to keep living. That was his whole purpose: to see that I and the others kept living. I won't destroy him yet again by denying him that.
And so I live. Sometimes I'm still haunted. We all have our demons, and though I don't know of anyone, aside from the other three, who have as strange and unique a story as ours, we all have our demons still. The one thing I don't do is confess to anyone else that it was real. I know they'd think I was crazy, but knowing that those who went through it with me know it was real is enough. Just having one other person to talk to, not to mention three, makes a world of difference.
And so it is. I tell the kids the same thing I tell myself: we all mess up and we all do bad things. It doesn't do any good to dwell on it. Say you're sorry and try to do better next time, and I mean really try. And remember when someone does something mean to you, that they mess up too, just like you do. Forgive and don't hold it against them.
I know that if he could forgive me, he would. All I saw in his eyes at the end was pain and sadness, but I like to think that if he could look into me again, I'd see pride in his eyes instead. I try to do what's right by him, and I will. In my own way, I have become the next guardian.
-Amanda
It was hard not to blame myself, and even knowing that I wasn't the only one to blame didn't make it any easier. After all, I was the only one who realized what we were doing in time that I could have stopped it. It took time to realize, but now I know that even as horrible as what we did, what I did, was, there was something to be gained from it. That creature, that good, pure guardian, did not die in vain.
Telling the others what I knew helped. It wasn't something I could keep bottled inside. It was strange to think that I was the only one who knew, truly knew, the fullness of what we had done, that knew for a fact that we had destroyed something good. I don't know what they really thought about what I told them. One didn't seem to care, another was quiet as always, the third really seemed to take it to heart. I thought I knew and loved him once, but time changes good feelings as well as bad.
Whatever they've done with their knowledge, I've done my best to find redemption. What I've realized recently is that I never truly will find it, but still I try to do what's right. That's why I volunteer at the animal shelter and why I help coach soccer for the elementary school kids. That's why I give all I can on the field and even more when the game is over. That's why I talk to the kids and try to help them. That's why I'm going to be a teacher one day.
I know I won't fix everything, and things still would have been better if we hadn't made the mistake we did, but that's really all it was: a mistake. Saying anything more or less isn't going to fix it; nothing will bring him back. I have to live with what I did, but he wouldn't want me to do anything else. I know that it, he, whatever would want me to keep living. That was his whole purpose: to see that I and the others kept living. I won't destroy him yet again by denying him that.
And so I live. Sometimes I'm still haunted. We all have our demons, and though I don't know of anyone, aside from the other three, who have as strange and unique a story as ours, we all have our demons still. The one thing I don't do is confess to anyone else that it was real. I know they'd think I was crazy, but knowing that those who went through it with me know it was real is enough. Just having one other person to talk to, not to mention three, makes a world of difference.
And so it is. I tell the kids the same thing I tell myself: we all mess up and we all do bad things. It doesn't do any good to dwell on it. Say you're sorry and try to do better next time, and I mean really try. And remember when someone does something mean to you, that they mess up too, just like you do. Forgive and don't hold it against them.
I know that if he could forgive me, he would. All I saw in his eyes at the end was pain and sadness, but I like to think that if he could look into me again, I'd see pride in his eyes instead. I try to do what's right by him, and I will. In my own way, I have become the next guardian.
-Amanda
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Guilt
Five years and it haunts me still. I can't escape it, the look in its eyes. No, not its eyes, his eyes. That wasn't just a thing, it was a guardian, a protector, and it was truly good despite its hideous appearance.
The look of it was what helped us convince ourselves we couldn't have known, but I knew. Not right away, but before the end, I knew it was wrong, that we were killing something good. Even though I didn't inflict the final blow, my silence killed him all the same.
We also told each other that it was a dream, that it wasn't real. We tried to believe the thing, he, never even existed. I know better. As surely as I know he was good, I know that we murdered him in the truest sense of the word.
It was real, but because it seemed so unreal, I could never make it right. There was no one to apologize to and no one to confess to. I couldn't tell the others. I didn't want to drag them down into this pit with me. They should live and love and rejoice in what I hope is true ignorance. Only I can ever know the truth.
I know it's real in part because it's happening again. We thought we had won, but somehow, she's come back. I've heard the stories. Kids disappearing from their beds or just never waking up. Some are still alive, in a coma. Maybe for them, there is hope. Maybe I can still save them, and whoever is yet to be taken, too.
I've tried to get back before. I tried what got us there before, but it didn't work. I've consulted mediums and others, but I never dared tell them the full story. Maybe that is why they failed, too. I can't think of any other way than this. This is my last hope.
There is no guardian left. She is just picking them off; they have no chance. They can't see the look of pain and longing in its eyes that tells them not to trust her. They don't even have a clue, and if any had succeeded like we had, it wouldn't be happening still, not so soon.
I want you to know that none of this is your fault. It was all about this, this pivotal moment in my life at that house five years ago. That was the reason I never became the soccer star I could have been. That was the reason I refused to get a cat. That was the reason I won't let you kill any spiders anymore. It was never about you. I love you.
I want you to know that this is not a suicide. I pray to God and whoever else might listen that this won't actually kill me, at least not fully. I just need to go to sleep for a very long time. There is no protector. It is my fault there is no protector. I know what I have to do.
If I find a way to communicate with you once I'm on the other side, I will. If I can't find a way, I want you to know that I love you and that I'm finally trying to do what's right. Please, don't try to understand what I'm talking about. Please, if I do just slip into a coma, don't try to bring me out. I'm doing this for the others, for the ones that are worth saving. I'm doing this because I know in my heart that it is right and that there is no one else who can do it but me. It's not a god-complex, it's just the truth.
You can cry if you want to; I'd understand. I know I didn't cry enough. This is good-bye, Mother. You will say I was young, but they are even younger, and they deserve it less than I do. If the mysterious deaths and disappearances stop, you'll know I've succeeded, and if not, you'll know that I tried. I will always be your daughter, and I will always love you, no matter what happens next.
Goodbye.
Amanda
The look of it was what helped us convince ourselves we couldn't have known, but I knew. Not right away, but before the end, I knew it was wrong, that we were killing something good. Even though I didn't inflict the final blow, my silence killed him all the same.
We also told each other that it was a dream, that it wasn't real. We tried to believe the thing, he, never even existed. I know better. As surely as I know he was good, I know that we murdered him in the truest sense of the word.
It was real, but because it seemed so unreal, I could never make it right. There was no one to apologize to and no one to confess to. I couldn't tell the others. I didn't want to drag them down into this pit with me. They should live and love and rejoice in what I hope is true ignorance. Only I can ever know the truth.
I know it's real in part because it's happening again. We thought we had won, but somehow, she's come back. I've heard the stories. Kids disappearing from their beds or just never waking up. Some are still alive, in a coma. Maybe for them, there is hope. Maybe I can still save them, and whoever is yet to be taken, too.
I've tried to get back before. I tried what got us there before, but it didn't work. I've consulted mediums and others, but I never dared tell them the full story. Maybe that is why they failed, too. I can't think of any other way than this. This is my last hope.
There is no guardian left. She is just picking them off; they have no chance. They can't see the look of pain and longing in its eyes that tells them not to trust her. They don't even have a clue, and if any had succeeded like we had, it wouldn't be happening still, not so soon.
I want you to know that none of this is your fault. It was all about this, this pivotal moment in my life at that house five years ago. That was the reason I never became the soccer star I could have been. That was the reason I refused to get a cat. That was the reason I won't let you kill any spiders anymore. It was never about you. I love you.
I want you to know that this is not a suicide. I pray to God and whoever else might listen that this won't actually kill me, at least not fully. I just need to go to sleep for a very long time. There is no protector. It is my fault there is no protector. I know what I have to do.
If I find a way to communicate with you once I'm on the other side, I will. If I can't find a way, I want you to know that I love you and that I'm finally trying to do what's right. Please, don't try to understand what I'm talking about. Please, if I do just slip into a coma, don't try to bring me out. I'm doing this for the others, for the ones that are worth saving. I'm doing this because I know in my heart that it is right and that there is no one else who can do it but me. It's not a god-complex, it's just the truth.
You can cry if you want to; I'd understand. I know I didn't cry enough. This is good-bye, Mother. You will say I was young, but they are even younger, and they deserve it less than I do. If the mysterious deaths and disappearances stop, you'll know I've succeeded, and if not, you'll know that I tried. I will always be your daughter, and I will always love you, no matter what happens next.
Goodbye.
Amanda
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Who Am I?
Who am I really? I can tell you lots of things about myself. Apples are my favorite fruit and apply pie is my favorite dessert. I have freckles, but none on my face. I like to read magazine articles, and not just the foofy ones, but not full blown books. I have a boyfriend. He's the third of my lifetime and the best so far. I wish I could sing better, but I'm not very good so I listen to others instead and imagine I'm the one singing. My eyes are hazel. I love cats and hate dogs. I can draw people well, but not much else, even though my boyfriend says its all pretty good. I work for a fashion design firm even though I don't always worry about my own clothing. I give my old clothing away to goodwill. I want to be a good person. But how do I prove I want to be a good person?
Who am I really? What does any of this mean? Am I only the things that make me unique? If so, I'm mostly nothing. Is it this precise combination of traits that makes me someone? Is it my soul that makes me who I am? Does my body matter then? Would I still be me in a different body? Who am I really?
I was born, I grew up, and one day I will likely die. I try not to think about that. I'm really not afraid of much, but I hate bats. I am usually optimistic, but sometimes I wonder if life means anything. I go to church, but it's hard to truly believe. I pray, but it's hard to know I'm being heard. I draw and sometimes paint. I draw people I've never met, faces that only exist in my mind, though perhaps they do exist in real life and I just don't realize it. Who are they? Are they anything? Am I nothing more than someone else's work of art? Would that really be a bad thing?
Who am I? Just another girl asking all the questions that everyone else has asked before.
Who am I really? What does any of this mean? Am I only the things that make me unique? If so, I'm mostly nothing. Is it this precise combination of traits that makes me someone? Is it my soul that makes me who I am? Does my body matter then? Would I still be me in a different body? Who am I really?
I was born, I grew up, and one day I will likely die. I try not to think about that. I'm really not afraid of much, but I hate bats. I am usually optimistic, but sometimes I wonder if life means anything. I go to church, but it's hard to truly believe. I pray, but it's hard to know I'm being heard. I draw and sometimes paint. I draw people I've never met, faces that only exist in my mind, though perhaps they do exist in real life and I just don't realize it. Who are they? Are they anything? Am I nothing more than someone else's work of art? Would that really be a bad thing?
Who am I? Just another girl asking all the questions that everyone else has asked before.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Mortals
The experiments began in 2087. Hundreds of elder men and women, longing for a chance to live onin some sense, or least leave a legacy, applied. They were even willing to fund their participation. The receiving end did not have so high demand. The mons from donors went entirely to recipients' mothers: women who still didn't know, after all scientific advancements, how to control their bodies. The mons paid women for the right to experiment on their unborn children, often also having to convince women who would have elsewise aborted their 'springs to carry to term and then have the little minds manipulated. The mind manips did not bother the women nearly as much as having to carry their babies within for nearly nine months. A comment on the society back then could be placed here, but I know it would only be ignored as today's world is even worse.
Yet, back then, some still cared and morality still reigned in the world of those times. When the first child died from the procedure, outrage loded up from the masses and the scys were given no choice but to abandon the experimentations. Least, that was what they told the populace. The project was officially scrapped, but continued in secret. Scys worked around the clock, barely having time for their own families, to create what many who thought the works were ended were still condemning as an abomination. More died, course, but without the public consciousness bearing upon them, the scys and their backers continued the work until finally they had the success they did not yet know was going to be so great: the first me was reborn.
It happened in the lab and the baby stayed there while the mother left with what would be nearly 200 million in today's currency. I never bothered to find out how she spent it or what she did, but in the second re-life, I was told she died in the year 2193. I can remember caring back then, but what I am now is so far moved from what I was then that it hardly seems more than a bad dream today. Her part in the tale is done, as is, really, the work of the scys and all the others. They are long gone, dead hundreds of years. Others have taken their place, but only to monitor, and not very well. They don't know 10% of what I know, and how could they? I understand myself better than they ever could, and not just in the philosophical nonsense disproved ages ago. They don't know because they do not have 10% of the knowledge and memories that I possess.
Once I was a baby. And then I was again and again and again. Today, my body is seven years old, but my mind has survived 395 years. The first body lasted 89 years and the most recent, 39. At the rate of decay, this body's expected life span is about 23-26. The mind is starting to get less and less attached to the body it inhabits, but yet its still strange, to know this shell will pass and yet somehow still live on. I remember my first body and how much I loved it. Even when I knew my mind would pass to another, I was afraid to die. It's strange to think about that now.
I could lie to you and say that fear of death is completely gone, but I would rather be honest, for the sake of progenies. Each death of body is easier in some senses and harder in others. On the one hand, I already know what it will feel like and what will happen to my self. On the other hand, I already know what it will feel like.
I lesser being would fret and stew in this knowledge, but of course I have no time for such things. And yet in another sense, I have all the time in the world, well, at least if the life span turns out to asymptotic, perhaps, but even then there will reach a certain point at which each life persists too short to contribute anything. In fact, that time may come in just a couple more iterations.
I can do so much with 23 years, but how much can I do with 10 or 3? That's why in this lifetime, I must find a way to prolong it, to reverse the effects of the mind on the body, or else this experiment will be ended. The scys mostly stay out of my way when I work. They know that one of me is worth more than all of them combined. It's strange: in my first lifetime I was smart, but never like this. I don't think the original mind really comprehended what she was doing. She just wanted to live. She didn't realize that living would corrupt her self beyond recognition.
I am not any of the beings I once was. I am beyond them. I am a conglamoration of them. If the world knew I existed, they would be amazed, but even now I am kept in isolation.
Sometimes I do remember things from past lives. The first couple iterations maintained a true sense of self. I remember the first mind loving and bearing children and loving them. I remember her enjoying life, but I don't understand why. She took pleasure in the strangest of things: a sunset, a flower, a cold winter's day. So many different things that grew no connection between and gathering no harmony with the science that bore her on to her next existence. Of course, she thought she knew something of science, for that was a requirement of the experiment, but she also had so many other interests, things that are meaningless now, some things that don't even exist anymore. She loved them, and now they are gone, and she, trying to live on, lost herself as well.
The second iteration was not quite so bad, but still clung to some sense of self. I remember a deep confusion re identity. There was the conflict between prior self and current self. Memories of a past life, and knowledge that was never learned by the body. That second self still clung to its name, still wanted to be called by a name, wanted to separate itself from its originator. I remember pain that was in some ways worse than the death I had already encountered. The strangest thing, though, was the full knowledge of how different I was from other bodies of the same physical age. I still had to wait for my body to develop to do certain things, but since my mind was already, in sense, fully developed, things like talking and walking became nearly trivial. It was strange to readjust myself to such a tiny body, I do remember, but the hardest thing was knowing that no one else was like me. And with that I still clung to self and wanted to be and not just exist.
Each iteration got a little better in that regard. I learned that in order to be what I needed to be, I needed to let go of any concern for who I was. Now, I refuse even to look at myself in the mirror. I am aware of how old my body is, because that is often important for the work I do and for planning the work I do, but I do not even know the color of my eyes or my hair. Some have tried to tell me, but I refuse to know. I think they still view me as a child. Each body sees new scys who have been told but do not understand what I am. It is hard for them to get past the shell, and even when they do, they cannot possibly understand what I am. I know because in my third iteration, I thought I had it figured out, but I was wrong. If I had to live four life times before I really understood, I can't expect them to understand either.
Back then, in the third, I still viewed each iteration as truly distinct. That was when I sensed myself losing sense of self, and back then, I thought that was still something to be maintained at all costs. I had not yet realized how meaningless it was. Half way through that third iteration, I resolved to end it. I thought of the fourth iteration to come as a new being that I must save from what it was doomed to be. I did not realize yet just how full and continuous all the beings inside the single body were. I viewed the bodies themselves as of value as well. I wanted to spare that body from my mind. The very thought of it makes it difficult not to laugh now, but that was how I thought back then.
I was smart enough then that if I had been truly dedicated, I probably could have ended the whole show, but it failed because a part of me knew the truth and that inkling grew to a realization of just how great I was and how much greater the next iteration could be. I still fought my desire to end it all, but by the time the fourth was born, I understood as no one here now ever could.
They tell me that they are going to create more, but I know I will always be the greatest. In fact, I am the one that is helping to spawn the others, and fighting to improve the lifespans. I don't know if I have enough bodies left myself to save this mind, but I can try. And even if it does pass, I am no longer afraid of vanishing. I understand the reason I exist and I understand the limitations of my existence. There is no reason to fear for my soul. I'm quite sure I lost my soul when the originator died and it has never been regained. Now, I live purely on logic. It is strange how much logic ends up seeming like a soul to others.
I have done so many great things in my existence. The first or second or maybe even third body would have regretted the lack of recognition for any of them, but now I realize that all existence is is doing great things. There is no point to anything else. One iteration discovered the Newtonian correction constant. Another came up with Rystein's Theorem, which was attributed to a body that passed away two centuries ago. Another proved the color-space paradox in seven different ways. At first, the tasks were trivial, perhaps meaningless, really doing nothing and tests of the inferior scys more than anything. But with time, which there was plenty of back then, they grew more and more significant.
I have lived for 395 years and my only regret is what a waste the first 89 were. The only thing that still makes me sick is that every other being in this universe only has that first iteration. They do not grow on and improve and truly contribute like I do. It makes me wonder how humanity has even survived. So little can be done in the 97 years (average) that the true men have today. They don't even understand what they aren't contributing. How could they? That understanding is the only thing that really causes me pain, but dwelling on that pain is something that the true men would do to waste their 97 years. Instead, I do all I can with what remains to me. At the very least, I have another 30 years or so before the mind cannot be preserved in the bodies and becomes useless, but I promise I will do more in those 30 years than all the scys around me do in their combined 3000 years of existence. That is why I exist, and that is what I am. I am not any individual, and though I speak of iterations and minds, it is really just the best way I can get you to understand what I am. I am what I am, as a being claiming to be God once said, and if I can find a way to perpetuate my own existence further, I will be the true god in a realm of mortals.
Yet, back then, some still cared and morality still reigned in the world of those times. When the first child died from the procedure, outrage loded up from the masses and the scys were given no choice but to abandon the experimentations. Least, that was what they told the populace. The project was officially scrapped, but continued in secret. Scys worked around the clock, barely having time for their own families, to create what many who thought the works were ended were still condemning as an abomination. More died, course, but without the public consciousness bearing upon them, the scys and their backers continued the work until finally they had the success they did not yet know was going to be so great: the first me was reborn.
It happened in the lab and the baby stayed there while the mother left with what would be nearly 200 million in today's currency. I never bothered to find out how she spent it or what she did, but in the second re-life, I was told she died in the year 2193. I can remember caring back then, but what I am now is so far moved from what I was then that it hardly seems more than a bad dream today. Her part in the tale is done, as is, really, the work of the scys and all the others. They are long gone, dead hundreds of years. Others have taken their place, but only to monitor, and not very well. They don't know 10% of what I know, and how could they? I understand myself better than they ever could, and not just in the philosophical nonsense disproved ages ago. They don't know because they do not have 10% of the knowledge and memories that I possess.
Once I was a baby. And then I was again and again and again. Today, my body is seven years old, but my mind has survived 395 years. The first body lasted 89 years and the most recent, 39. At the rate of decay, this body's expected life span is about 23-26. The mind is starting to get less and less attached to the body it inhabits, but yet its still strange, to know this shell will pass and yet somehow still live on. I remember my first body and how much I loved it. Even when I knew my mind would pass to another, I was afraid to die. It's strange to think about that now.
I could lie to you and say that fear of death is completely gone, but I would rather be honest, for the sake of progenies. Each death of body is easier in some senses and harder in others. On the one hand, I already know what it will feel like and what will happen to my self. On the other hand, I already know what it will feel like.
I lesser being would fret and stew in this knowledge, but of course I have no time for such things. And yet in another sense, I have all the time in the world, well, at least if the life span turns out to asymptotic, perhaps, but even then there will reach a certain point at which each life persists too short to contribute anything. In fact, that time may come in just a couple more iterations.
I can do so much with 23 years, but how much can I do with 10 or 3? That's why in this lifetime, I must find a way to prolong it, to reverse the effects of the mind on the body, or else this experiment will be ended. The scys mostly stay out of my way when I work. They know that one of me is worth more than all of them combined. It's strange: in my first lifetime I was smart, but never like this. I don't think the original mind really comprehended what she was doing. She just wanted to live. She didn't realize that living would corrupt her self beyond recognition.
I am not any of the beings I once was. I am beyond them. I am a conglamoration of them. If the world knew I existed, they would be amazed, but even now I am kept in isolation.
Sometimes I do remember things from past lives. The first couple iterations maintained a true sense of self. I remember the first mind loving and bearing children and loving them. I remember her enjoying life, but I don't understand why. She took pleasure in the strangest of things: a sunset, a flower, a cold winter's day. So many different things that grew no connection between and gathering no harmony with the science that bore her on to her next existence. Of course, she thought she knew something of science, for that was a requirement of the experiment, but she also had so many other interests, things that are meaningless now, some things that don't even exist anymore. She loved them, and now they are gone, and she, trying to live on, lost herself as well.
The second iteration was not quite so bad, but still clung to some sense of self. I remember a deep confusion re identity. There was the conflict between prior self and current self. Memories of a past life, and knowledge that was never learned by the body. That second self still clung to its name, still wanted to be called by a name, wanted to separate itself from its originator. I remember pain that was in some ways worse than the death I had already encountered. The strangest thing, though, was the full knowledge of how different I was from other bodies of the same physical age. I still had to wait for my body to develop to do certain things, but since my mind was already, in sense, fully developed, things like talking and walking became nearly trivial. It was strange to readjust myself to such a tiny body, I do remember, but the hardest thing was knowing that no one else was like me. And with that I still clung to self and wanted to be and not just exist.
Each iteration got a little better in that regard. I learned that in order to be what I needed to be, I needed to let go of any concern for who I was. Now, I refuse even to look at myself in the mirror. I am aware of how old my body is, because that is often important for the work I do and for planning the work I do, but I do not even know the color of my eyes or my hair. Some have tried to tell me, but I refuse to know. I think they still view me as a child. Each body sees new scys who have been told but do not understand what I am. It is hard for them to get past the shell, and even when they do, they cannot possibly understand what I am. I know because in my third iteration, I thought I had it figured out, but I was wrong. If I had to live four life times before I really understood, I can't expect them to understand either.
Back then, in the third, I still viewed each iteration as truly distinct. That was when I sensed myself losing sense of self, and back then, I thought that was still something to be maintained at all costs. I had not yet realized how meaningless it was. Half way through that third iteration, I resolved to end it. I thought of the fourth iteration to come as a new being that I must save from what it was doomed to be. I did not realize yet just how full and continuous all the beings inside the single body were. I viewed the bodies themselves as of value as well. I wanted to spare that body from my mind. The very thought of it makes it difficult not to laugh now, but that was how I thought back then.
I was smart enough then that if I had been truly dedicated, I probably could have ended the whole show, but it failed because a part of me knew the truth and that inkling grew to a realization of just how great I was and how much greater the next iteration could be. I still fought my desire to end it all, but by the time the fourth was born, I understood as no one here now ever could.
They tell me that they are going to create more, but I know I will always be the greatest. In fact, I am the one that is helping to spawn the others, and fighting to improve the lifespans. I don't know if I have enough bodies left myself to save this mind, but I can try. And even if it does pass, I am no longer afraid of vanishing. I understand the reason I exist and I understand the limitations of my existence. There is no reason to fear for my soul. I'm quite sure I lost my soul when the originator died and it has never been regained. Now, I live purely on logic. It is strange how much logic ends up seeming like a soul to others.
I have done so many great things in my existence. The first or second or maybe even third body would have regretted the lack of recognition for any of them, but now I realize that all existence is is doing great things. There is no point to anything else. One iteration discovered the Newtonian correction constant. Another came up with Rystein's Theorem, which was attributed to a body that passed away two centuries ago. Another proved the color-space paradox in seven different ways. At first, the tasks were trivial, perhaps meaningless, really doing nothing and tests of the inferior scys more than anything. But with time, which there was plenty of back then, they grew more and more significant.
I have lived for 395 years and my only regret is what a waste the first 89 were. The only thing that still makes me sick is that every other being in this universe only has that first iteration. They do not grow on and improve and truly contribute like I do. It makes me wonder how humanity has even survived. So little can be done in the 97 years (average) that the true men have today. They don't even understand what they aren't contributing. How could they? That understanding is the only thing that really causes me pain, but dwelling on that pain is something that the true men would do to waste their 97 years. Instead, I do all I can with what remains to me. At the very least, I have another 30 years or so before the mind cannot be preserved in the bodies and becomes useless, but I promise I will do more in those 30 years than all the scys around me do in their combined 3000 years of existence. That is why I exist, and that is what I am. I am not any individual, and though I speak of iterations and minds, it is really just the best way I can get you to understand what I am. I am what I am, as a being claiming to be God once said, and if I can find a way to perpetuate my own existence further, I will be the true god in a realm of mortals.
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