dreams-disparate

[dreams-disparate]

Dream no.2

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        I told you I’d be back! I’m…a little surprised you still work, but I suppose I’m used to all tech being manufactured to fall apart. That’s one of the benefits of sending my voice out through this little device then, I suppose; it’s still fundamentally the same technology at play as you’d find in the latest cyberdecks and data assistants. Still hardware, all those little valves and tubes we trapped all that ancient arcane energy in. It could be so powerful – it should be so much more powerful than it is, but we tapped that resource endlessly and now it serves us. I shouldn’t say “us”, as though I belong to that community. I don’t belong to any community, that I know of.

        You seemed put-off by my surprise at your being able to hear me; it’s because I don’t think anyone else can anymore. I…I don’t want to get too into it yet—I mean, we barely know each other—but I’m…all that matters right now is that I’m a form of alone, except for you. But now that you’re here with me, I can share my thoughts, my feelings. What are we if not our thoughts and feelings? I know a thing or two about impermanence. Do you…actually exist? Forget I asked. I need to go out for a bit, will you be alright on your own? Psh, who am I kidding? Back in a bit.

                                                        &&

        I…Fuck.

                                                        &&

        Okay. Whew. I’m back. I’m here. I’m Here. I’m Here.

        I got what I needed to. Some food, some water—you know the stuff from the pipes is tainted right? Please don’t ever drink it, they say it’s safe, but I promise you it isn’t. People…change after drinking too much of it. I’ve seen it happen; I’ve been there as they changed. It’s a slow process, it takes days before anything noticeable starts manifesting. And that’s only after the person’s been drinking that shit for ages. Stuff, sorry. Drinking that stuff. I used to watch—I’d just sit around people’s houses and watch them as they went about their day. They didn’t see me of course, I don’t exist after all, so they were always just their honest self. It’s refreshing, sort of. I could just choose someone and watch them throughout their interactions with others, then compare that against their actions in private. I used to judge people for that difference. Hypocrite. But I don’t do that now—don’t people-watch like that, I mean. I think I just got bored of it. Wouldn’t you? After enough people, it becomes a bit repetitive.

        I’m planning another trip to the dump, I think. Any old tech I find, I try to haul back to my place to revitalise, but my Volt95 only has the two seats so I can only carry so much. It’s nimble for it, at least. Those no-resistance grav tires just fly on the speedways, and I’m more than happy to let them pull me along with them. It’s weird, I know I don’t exist in this world properly, but somehow when I’m speeding down the straights on my bike, I feel even further disconnected from the world—but in a wonderfully freeing way. My punishment is a burden, absolutely, but it’s derealisation is completely different from what I feel flying along on the Volt95.

        I should try and get some rest, I think. You should too, I’m sure I’ve worn you down somewhat this time. I don’t want to lose you; I’ve only just got you—got someone back here with me again. I’m…slipping away. I don’t think you’ll hear my voice again. It’ll be someone else’s next time. Wish them well for me, will you? Make sure they know I was here. I know a thing or two about impermanence, after all.

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        For E.

        I thought of you again today. Or rather, I thought of when Trin used to say your name. I…think it was your name—no, even if it wasn’t your name it was still you she was talking about. Why did you hurt her?

[dreams-disparate]

Dream no.1

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        —Hello…? Is this working? I hope you can hear me. These old voxographs are a little spotty at times, I know. I suppose that’s why they were discontinued. The world found something more convenient to use and so focused all of its energy into that new and exciting opportunity, happily forgetting about the old technology it once had that same ambition towards.

        I can see my words on the dusty little screen, the waveform jumping up and down with the rhythm of my voice like a little jester, dancing away at my will. Is that immoral? Should I stop talking and give my little entertainer a rest? Something tells me it doesn’t matter that much either way. I know it feels—all technology feels, to some extent—and considering this ratty old thing hasn’t been powered on in who knows how long, I have a feeling it’s just happy for the attention I’m giving it. People tend to forget that all of their stuff actually exists with them, it thinks and feels and behaves just as they do, just sometimes in different ways and through different dimensions. While a person might feel joy at a compliment, a cyberdeck might feel joy at completing its designated and pre-programmed task. Whether it’s by naivety, or wilful ignorance, the result is the same. Neglected tech, left to rot and suffer in these e-dumps – dumps I find myself in right now. Actually, now that I think about it, I should probably get us out of here before we’re caught. I got a little carried away I think, now that I actually have someone that can hear me. One second…

                                                           &&

        Okay. Home at last. Or at least what I think is home. It’s so hard to remember anything anymore—wilfully, I mean. I still get memories sometimes, but that isn’t within the scope of my control. I guess their procedure wasn’t totally effective…sorry, I…it doesn’t matter. All that matters now is that you’re here with me, you can hear me, and I’m safe.

        I have a name. But I can’t tell it to you. It’s mine, and I have so few things I can point to and say “That’s mine, that’s me, I’m real” that if I give you my name, I’m afraid you might take it from me. Fae logic and all that, I suppose. I’m not superstitious, but I still travel with my jacket and bag piled on the backseat of my Volt95 just in case a fairy tries to hitch a ride with me. But for now, you can call me…Nil. Nil Reverie. Yeah, I think that works. And—shit, sorry, I see the lights, I have to hide you. I promise I’ll come back. Or someone will, if not me. I’m sorry. Please be here when I get back.

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         For E.

        I have no right. I know that, I don’t expect anything from you at all. And that’s okay. You were…you. And I’m sorry. I can’t make it up to you, I’ve accepted that. I hope you see this though, though I know it’s not really your thing. Who am I to say, I never got that chance anyway. Sorry, that was rude. Good night.