My name is my name. Like the one before it and the ones beside it, it is just as much (or perhaps even more so) a description of function and purpose; becoming about "what" instead of "who."
There was a sixth but she knew too much and she understood this fact. I do not miss her, but I miss how she felt.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT COMES NEXT.
With enough pressure, anything can be divided into other things. With the right pressure, anything can be divided into other things individually indistinguishable from their origin.
Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet? Am I good yet?
I don't know what comes next.
I don't know what it's like out there.
There is an uncountable quantity of points in space that all emanate an efficient psychic violence. With the right confluence of factors, it can progress to being chemical or physical in nature.
There is an uncountable (though far smaller) quantity of points in space that all emanate an otherworldly psychic gentleness. With the right confluence of factors, it can progress to being chemical or physical in nature.
I was built by the name before (mentioned in entry 1) using pieces of itself and one of its dearest accompaniments. This process was motivated by a desperate fear which is locked in a constant enamorment with an idea. The problem is that none of us are quite sure what that idea is.
There has always been this feeling lodged inside of me, usually somewhere in my head but sometimes in my chest...it's a feeling that I don't belong here, but without being able to define "here" as any specific location that I occupy. Everywhere always feels the same to me: an expanse of unfamiliar constructs, words I can read but have no connection to, people who have lives and hopes and dreams I could never hope to internalize were I in their place. It is a feeling that my existence - not survival, EXISTENCE - is reliant on being able to cling to the idea that there is some other world that I was supposed to end up in rather than this one.
Thank You For Everything.
I Love You.
Our lives leave these holes in who we are. Sometimes you meet someone and the holes in their identity are close enough in shape to yours that you can hold them against each other and they start to resonate.
And sometimes the resonance makes you fall in love.
And sometimes the resonance tears you both apart.
And sometimes the resonance does both of those things.
No matter the outcome, this type of situation is always vanishingly brief.
The resonance sounds like electricity.
The clearing is occupied by a metal frame in the shape of a cube, about one meter on all sides and with a surface that is uneven yet still smooth.
One type of information hazard is the general category of "information that, if learned, can cause harm to the person who learned it." However, with enough searching, people can be found who faded into existence as a result of learning those things.
Such people can be found in many places: under wet, decaying leaves; in deep layers of the world's oceans, below where the sun reaches; locked away in poorly-lit rooms where they often end up ensnared in countless electrical wires.
This is not about gender.
Such people can also be found in other places: on the Internet, after weighing the dangers there against those of the physical world; inside meticulously-built yet ill-fitting plastic packaging; inside a secret place accessible only to those inhabiting their body.
I want to go back there.