S0S0 eng ver
I can’t wait, for the weekend to begin!
I sighed out and old song as I took of my suit. The latex un. I remember it used to be called Promised Land or heaven. She wasn’t one of us…but she knew this world, like none of us.
I remember her…why did she go?
I don’t wanna live in a world without you…
…I started to write this story maybe a week into the New Year (2021). It was supposed to be some utopic/distopic take on the future, sprinkled with some social commentary which could be easily interpreted and understood. By the end of the new year I got myself into a creative prison and I’m still just cleaning its bars. I don’t write and I had no will to finish this story ever. But then something happened, that hurt. I never wanted to experience this.
In my little creative journey I have discovered few artists that have genuinely changed my life. There are few artists walking this earth that saw into the future just like she did. Now I kinda feel like there’s no future anymore. But the cruel joke of life is…we continue. I hope, for my own sentimental reasons, that when someone like Her dies…God cries more than usually.
I also realize, that for the 4 – 5 people reading the story, this end commentary doesn’t mean much. I don’t really care. I started writing this with a thought, but now it’s gone. Now I turned this empty shell into my mourning garment.
For an angel that wanted to touch the moon.
I love you Sophie. I'll tell you myself one day.iform filled with electrodes was actively adjusting to my aggressively pear-shaped body, meaning it was suffocating me through the day. All that sweat, but nothing to show for it. I grabbed my belly with both hands. The only bodily changes I experienced were bright red dots all over. I did not like it. But I lived with it.
These smallpox like dots were results of electrode stimulations throughout the day, some smaller, some larger. The cerebral apparatus was completely soaked from the inside, but I guess that’s why it’s waterproof. I came to my senses, crawled down from the bed right to my balcony. There by the door, my intelligent cigarette was already waiting for me.
"Good day, my dear smoker!"
I took a drag. Looked around for a bit at the surrounding apartments. They were covered by LCD displays constantly playing nature images backed up by nature sounds, from high quality speakers built in the back. It’s always a nice distraction from this cold metal world. After a while You start to feel the nice mountain air in your lungs. I took another drag. Then the ciggy turned off.
"Good night, my dear smoker!"
That was my limit for the day. The ciggy knows, if I only take 2 drags a day, I barely die sooner than my peers. It’s called the healthy option and of course it’s always adjustable. No need for adjustments tho, everything’s fine as it is. I put it back where I left it.
As I came back through my balcony door I got sprayed by a heavy (but refreshing) dose of disinfectant mist. It shouldn’t replace regular showers, but I was already too lazy to take one. Some people go without showers for years, since this and similar disinfectants are present in nearly every entryway to a building. The outside air is extremely toxic.
So after my little hygienic routine I started to once again ponder about my career and my future. I kinda have a pretty solid paycheck and it comes in weekly. As a commercial critic I live the dream. The whole day I’m connected to commercials with my specialized bodysuit. I experience them, I feel them, i taste them. My feelings are subsequently recorded and put into algorithms that serve as feedback machines for the actual companies. I don’t really have to do much criticizing, it’s enough for me to feel some way.
My dad was actually one of the first, kindofa beta-tester. Back then we didn’t really know what the effects of “injecting commercials right into your bloodstream” does to a person, also the commercials were allegedly much more emotionally manipulative. They wanted you to feel a range of emotions, and my dad felt them all. Until he couldn’t feel much of anything anymore. He wasn’t alone. Mass suicides prompted governments to create new laws, which would prohibit companies from being emotionally manipulative in their marketing. Of course, these laws were extremely vague and they didn’t really change anything.
Well anyways, I got my dad’s job as some sorta reparation. And I’m actually not sure if commercials are less emotionally manipulative these days. I think we just burn out differently. Fuck it. I don’t have it as hard as he did, the technology has evolved a lot since (to avoid the lawsuits and controversy). And I experienced a lot in this job. It gave a lot, it took a lot.
But now it’s time for some me time.
Today I live for me, not for the product. So I sat back in my super-recliner chair and I put a bucket on my lap. It was filled with synthetic fat, an essence from plastic vegetables – it has the ability to imitate the texture and taste of every food that has ever existed, you just gotta have a mental image of it.
After I pig out with my bucket, I usually like to connect myself to my gaming console. Other than playing the best games ever it injects you through electrodes with a variety of feelings – being drunk, being high, orgasms, genuine childlike happiness, the most intense and passionate love, all the classics. You wanna feel every level up like it’s a pure shot of heroine? And it’s not like you can get some drug immunity, these are just simulated feelings after all, no real chemical reactions happening. No real harm to health.
It’s not like these things were needed for every household, but in order to survive, everyone had at least an older model. You can’t go out much, so that’s how you experience life. It did wonders for cybersex too.
But you still get bored after a while. I took of my helmet, and my eyes were filled with the warmth of natural darkness. It felt really good, for some reason it reminded me of a past, half-forgotten, like an infant’s dream in their mothers lap. For a moment, the brands started to disappear from my eyes. Their little annoying jingles got drowned out by some serene silence. The taste of the plastic has left my mouth. New thoughts started to grow in my mind. Maybe…they always wanted to grow. Maybe I just didn’t gave them enough space before.
Where did they come from? They are like hooded strangers, I know there’s someone under the hood, but I can’t name them. This isn’t my work and it’s sure not my free time. Who’s laying here besides me on my bed??? A stranger just appeared next to me, right where the moonlight fell through my window. It’s like they are projected here from the moon, like some sorta reverse bat-signal. Even though they came through light, it’s not revealing them at all. This person is hiding in a shadow of my mind. I have to uncover them, but I can’t just brush away their hair from their face. I have to brush away the shadow of everydays from my mind. So think.
Think think think. Where do I know her from? Most people I know from work…colleagues, partners. I know their names, how they look like (sometimes)..okay, I don’t know them at all. But I somehow came to the conclusion, that this person is a SHE. So I must be on the right track. Keep going.
I wanna touch her, like I really just want to brush that hair away. But that’s how dreams end. Through touches. And I know she isn’t really here. Buut let’s get back on track. So how do I know my colleagues then? I know them as material. I know them as machines, cause that’s what I am as well.
Then she took out a pack of cigarettes and smoked one..two, three. I remember I saw her doing this before.
(But when?)
…
(Where??)
A high altar. She stood right behind it. Then she stood in front of it. Clothed herself in the light. Started to dance. Came down, like she wanted to touch us (me?).
And the memory ran away. But now I remembered, I also have a pack of some real ciggies right besides my bed. Unopened. So I took out one, another one, just like she did. I was kinda forcing the memories back by imitating her.
I wanted to get close to her.
The smoke detectors didn’t like it that much, they sprayed me (us) real good. The cigarette soaked in my mouth, hers didn’t. But her hair got wet. Like it was meant to be. Her soaked clothes were shaping her, making her into a person, not just a ghost. I saw her skin, but I knew she wasn’t there. It was just a memory. I saw her in rain before. My room disappeared. It got replaced by a vibrant blue sky with lots of small white clouds. I haven’t seen the world quite like this. It wasn’t anything like VR. This was real, just like her.
And behind the bed…from behind her back, the sky started to change. Purple lightning started to dance around her, like she was about to power up or reveal a new form. But it just showed her to me…for less than a second. Then the lightning disappeared. Then it came back. Like my thoughts, my memories. They come to me, but then the everyday clouds replace them. Repeat. But still…till the lightning comes back, I know there’s hope. Hope that I’m not a machine yet.
What is this feeling? It came..from me. Not from electrodes. What can I anticipate from this state. I’m not sure it’s gonna be good or bad. Tears are pushing into my eyes, cause I know she isn’t here. I know and I understand. But she WAS here at some point, I remember. I’m not sure what is happening…but I can’t imagine a world without her. She WAS here! I remember. She was, although she didn’t belong. She was the sight of a better world, without the fog, a world yet to come. I remember it used to be called Promised Land or heaven. She wasn’t one of us…but she knew this world, like none of us.
I remember her…why did she go?
I don’t wanna live in a world without you…
…I started to write this story maybe a week into the New Year (2021). It was supposed to be some utopic/distopic take on the future, sprinkled with some social commentary which could be easily interpreted and understood. By the end of the new year I got myself into a creative prison and I’m still just cleaning its bars. I don’t write and I had no will to finish this story ever. But then something happened, that hurt. I never wanted to experience this.
In my little creative journey I have discovered few artists that have genuinely changed my life. There are few artists walking this earth that saw into the future just like she did. Now I kinda feel like there’s no future anymore. But the cruel joke of life is…we continue. I hope, for my own sentimental reasons, that when someone like Her dies…God cries more than usually.
I also realize, that for the 4 – 5 people reading the story, this end commentary doesn’t mean much. I don’t really care. I started writing this with a thought, but now it’s gone. Now I turned this empty shell into my mourning garment.
For an angel that wanted to touch the moon.
I love you Sophie. I'll tell you myself one day.
