Monday, April 7, 2014

the (un) limited options

"Very upset here," came the missive, and it was carried by avian messengers following the full specs discussed in an online RFC.

He smiled naturally--that is, without effort--suggesting that this may his constant state.

His blood was sneaking into the fibers of the wood floor, and he began to dare a dream (for what could a man who smiles so naturally dare dream?)

In this dream, the personas were given a lot of memory. A lot more memory than may actually be, how do you say it, 'necessary'. And with these memories, they began to operate. They followed simple instructions, and sought even simpler instruction. Over time, they realised that these memories were them, and they were these memory. And then they realized that they were giving form. They were the ones shaping his dreams.

"Commander One to Research 35," came the request for acknowledgement.

"Acknowledged," said Research 35.

"Recorded. real question, what I meant to say, wa--"

"Arrive tilted just yay-so, and hit brakes as soon as you realize you are using your legs."


There was no response for aeons. At Research 35, a new turntable was purchased, and one record. Someone actually walked out to get a coffee. And then that slowly turned into getting a container of the stuff mixed and blended to last a few months. There was a short romance with creamers, but very short lived. Eventually the universe just stopped asking if sugar.

Then he signed in again. "Of course there's no sugar," he promised. "And no cream."

Research 35 pressed the voice button and told him that she wanted to know what was in the package *before* anyone had a chance to see what was inside.

Commander One adopted a circling pattern, which made Research 35 feel better. So he was actually listening.

"Your approach is educated, Commander One," she said, "but I still want to know what's inside first."

He pulled an Immelmann. She could tell he was thinking. There was just a whole range of aerobatics that followed. He was thinking really hard.

And then, just when it was assumed a missile could be the only recourse, he broke the radio's silence. "I've been thinking," he suggested.

"Oh have you now?" she returned.

"Look. It's not about what's inside."

"So it's about what's outside?"

There was a short silence again, then, "No. It's about what isn't inside."

Research 35 zoomed in. There wasn't a pilot. "Where are you hiding?" she yelled. "The landing gear is NOT safe!"

The plane landed calmly and taxied to its spot. A ghost breezed past the emergency team, with a very personal message intended for delivery.

"What have you done, what have you done?" were the cries.

He smiled, naturally. "There was a part of me that was mean and vengeful. And cursed," he said. "And at times, I suppose I thought it was necessary, that horrible substance residing close to me. And I got rid of it."

"How can I tell?" she said.

"You can't," he told her flatly. "But I can. And gradually, I am going to prove it by creating more, new memories."

"It's always been about those memories, huh?" said Research 35. "Isn't that a little self-absorbed?"

"Maybe so," he shrugged. "But all that really matters is that there's no more bad ones."

No comments:

Post a Comment