This piece was found in an email I sent to myself on the 2nd of August 2012, I don’t recall writing this at all, neither do I remember what it is about. But there’s one thing, and one thing is for sure; they are already here…
Microscopic cyborgs invading stagnant brains in search for recyclable nerve cells and unused storage space. Grey matter matter not anymore; you are but a defectively engineered, high-maintenance, low-efficient and constantly pollutive mess of low-voltage transmission lines and carbon-based circuitry. Micro-cyborgs now come with nanotubes and atom-scale pneumatic drills, Micro-cyborgs know what is best for you, Micro-cyborgs shall set you free…
You greet the pellucid walls of thin air and redundant space, scanning them with blurry eyes, it has been some time since the two of you had a genuine conversation.
I know you gave up on planning, for it seemed not to ever work, but there’s this someone, this out-of-the-Matrix individual, who makes the relative heaviness of the burden of time dedication feel relatively bearable, yet absolutely worthwhile.
I don’t think time matters when it comes to these few, these singularities, these ones of a kind, the ones you never knew yet yearn to unite back with, the ones whom lifelines shall interweave with yours—or thus you aspire—, the ones who found their way out of the headless crowds amongst which they were raised, the ones who follow not, nor lead the herd, but stray away from the paths once paved by their forefathers, finding their own destiny, sculpting their own future, and seeing you in it.
It is for the one who makes you sway your quill with binary thoughts and scribe them onto the frail walls of imaginary space, the one who makes your ashen heart of a leopard-hawk reclaim its colour and ache again with melodies of alien hopes, the one who makes you render undying structures of concrete dreams and artificial realms for the barren minds and forlorn souls, and see a reflection of a human form in these shattered mirrors of age; a form that has been replaced by an abhorrence of an infernal shape since the departing of faith.
And you thought it was the time you got back to erasing. But I think not, my friend, for it is time you rewrote your fate.
“Guardians, down the hills they march
and blackness they beset
As watchmen eye them from afar
and havoc they beget
Seize them words of baleful bile
blighting this my fit
for now I ride to earn them scars
and them I shan’t regret”