[ | | | | ] It’s three in the morning, and I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m forgetting something.

There’s an implacable malaise that swarms the air like a Victorian miasma, a pseudoscientific explanation for my pseudorealistic expectations of how I should be able to think.

I forced myself out of my mattress and headed to the bathroom for my pills. I grabbed one of many white cubes, hoping that it would at least jog my memory somewhat, or at least extract this emotion, reaching into me and pulling it out like mucus clogging my nose so that I can breathe easily again.

[         ] It’s been eight years since I’ve decided to record my memories, five since I’ve started doing it regularly and with relatively the same fidelity I do now. For reasons I can’t remember, I can’t seem to distinguish fact from fiction anymore, I can’t seem to see if the people I’ve been meeting ever really existed, or if I’ve just added them there to make myself feel better.

Either way, if I never see them again, at least I know that they’re serving their purpose.

I turn to the window, its pane pitch black, sealed shut by the night.

I could go outside and see the stars. Stare at their miniscule size, lose myself in the vastness of space, and hopefully forget these emotions, but I think I’d like to at least attempt to remember for today. I’ll just wait for the sunrise. It’ll be a mess, but progress is progress.

[         ] I opened my laptop and scanned through each of the connectomes I’ve got. Most were made by friends who wanted to preserve themselves before undergoing some drastic life-changing decision, a few were last-ditch attempts to save someone as they lay dying, hoping that maybe they’ll be able to be recreated, if not saved. It’s a hope I’m still working on, an effort that’s thankfully given me money and books, under the unfortunate assumption that people think that I’m interested in the greater good to be a part of something this daunting.

[         ] On the contrary, I think that you’d have to be one of the most selfish people in the world to even have the drive to stay in this field. You can still be nice, of course, but if you’ve got a bleeding heart for those who can’t be saved by your particular science, you eventually see how limited your scope is and wonder if all you’re looking at are markets for lost causes every time you look at a crowd, someone too old or too poor or too stubborn to walk into that light of the singularity where we singularly singe off all anatomy. Pure, abstract connection. Total immortality, at least for a time. Boxed into these lotus-feeding machines to hopefully be content with what they have, transcendent bodies of technology and versatility. Something people would write myths of just decades ago.

I run my hands through my thighs to swat away bugs that aren’t there.

I wonder if I’m awake right now, I hope I am. There’s a definite benefit to being awake, your actions have a very real impact that don’t hit other people in the same way your dreams do, at least, if you believe what they say. I lost track of where I was from being awake to asleep ages ago. One moment you blink and everything goes according to plan, then you blink again and realize that either you’ve went back six hours in time or that you’ve just been dreaming of having a pretty decent start to the day.

[ | | | | ] I wish I could decide which I preferred.