Human after all (english translation)

March this year was intense. Here is translation:


Shit! This ain’t my flat!

OK, all my limbs are here. No blood, no pain. OK. And I feel my balls hanging low (so it isn’t cold either). Not that bad. OK, I see all black and white in a sort of comic-like view. But not the modern Hollywood filmed shit. My view is totally realistic and grainy (I think the filmmakers call it “large grain”). Just the way a regular day in an endless continuum of life of Dick Tracy looks like. The air smells of humidity and some expensive Ukrainian green tea (I know, this is not Dick Tracy-esque, this came from my brain). Obviously, I must’ve found myself in some rented flat in the middle of some shitty neighbourhood. Brooklyn I suppose. And apparently I’ve been here for a long time. I see posters and notes taped to the walls, with my handwriting on them. Holy shit, is it possible that I recognise my own handwriting even in dreams? I have a feeling it doesn’t belong to me anymore, but that it is a part of public good (it happens that people who are close to me point to my handwriting somewhere when me walk along or sit in a common area). But, to hell with the handwriting, let me live this scene a bit, whatever it possibly meant. Although I see “binary”, lemme do what’s logical – here where I am, with that what’s in front of me.

I sank in a chair. There is a worktable in front of me. A big one, the kind I always wanted to have. Zed (my computer) is here, of course, the same as in reality. There’s a window above the table, making the view oriented towards the outer world. All the monitors are bellow the window, and behind me is a door, of which I, somehow, wasn’t even aware. Standard setting: three decent matrix-style computer screens around Zed. The windows seem high and unusually decent for this neighbourhood (the façade is made of red brick and grout lines seem really cheap. I may be in Brooklyn, but I’m half of Crna Trava origin, through my dad, and I differentiate between a literate construction job and an illiterate one). Now that I come to think of it, the windows didn’t fit in because they were just too expensive, some heavy and completely homogenous fir, as in an expensive classy law firm in London. Yup, the details kicked ass. I was even OK with seeing things in monochrome. But the goddamn window! Three wings, each 5 m high and about a meter and twenty wide. Yup, this meant that my flat had an insanely high ceiling. If I happened to have colour vision I bet the windows would be… You know that expensive-looking-barely-brown-hollow kind of ones, made of some ultra material used in overpriced hotels. Thick glass, somehow I presume it is coated with an active nano layer which goes dim when it’s sunny… Bottom line, it reminds you of that expensive Hollywood production where they shoot a kick-ass comic book and blow a million bucks per frame. The comic book-frame-view was really a hell of a ride. That’s why it was all superinteresting to me though nothing really happened.

Suddenly, all the details became irrelevant. I’ve been here for a long time. The fingers have grown into the keyboard. I can see every pixel on each of the screens if I focus. Uptime is a three-digit number. It did not stink of stale garbage or unwashed clothes. Nope, it was a pretty cool flat and a pretty cool feeling. Great temperature and only a cup of coffee on the table. My T-shirt smelled only of cheap laundry detergent, I did not use the freshener because there is always some left in the fabric and it’s not healthy for the skin. So no LSD voids at night or that kind of shit. Nah, this was Krav Maga-clear mind type of hacking. Standard easy tasks, regular research for regular people, like you and me. I usually deal with them successfully, if something gives me trouble I send it to Marko (and it is always while I am writing an email that I solve everything, and even if I have further trouble, he solves all that on some meta level – no sweat).

Opposite mine – another flat. A guy at the table there, only that he decided to turn his back against the windows.

I have been trying for months to figure out who the guy is. What’s he doing? Why he never turns around? Why have I never seen his face? I have no idea what it looks like! I have no idea who he is! A guy sits 38 m in front of me, opposite me, only a floor below. I know that he can see me as well, but I’ve never caught him looking up here. He’s unbelievable. Loads of experience, you can tell, and cool. Completely calm. Seems like he’s ready to go on with this for another five years if needed. I stopped seeing him as a person. He became a symbol. The symbol of mystery – pure fear. Guts on the table.

While working, I used to look over the top of the main computer screen, and watch the guy’s flat actually. It was raining (like in all detective dreams). He did not have the curtains either and I saw everything through the window. OK, not everything. I could not read from the screen, but I could see he wasn’t running around some modern warfare shit with a gunpoint but working on some text, some terminal, who the fuck knows…

I developed unimaginable fear of the guy opposite me. Completely irrational! I did not know who he was, I have not seen him walk around the apartment, I did not see any action against someone / something. No, he was not dead in the chair, he was obviously working, drinking coffee, leaning back in his chair, putting his elbows on the table and such usual things one does while typing or reading on a computer. For the mystery to be even larger, over the past six months, the guy hasn’t been a part of any of my business. So our potential hatred and conflict were in another galaxy. He was just your usual neighbour, planted in front of his computer, the same as me. Too much the same as me…

Time went crazily off to those sewers and then to the Atlantic. By some strange feedback it instilled my veins with safety and calm that all this will finally end, in one way or another. What devastated me, on the fucking quarkic level, was that I did not know – how! I’ve managed to get very nervous in the last half an hour that I have been dreaming this shit. That’s all nice, Brooklyn, comic book, rain, the kick ass facade, even more kick ass windows, tidy table, matrix screens, my job a breeze, solving cases like Sherlock, the smell of rain, water bringing a piece of newspaper daily to the sewer, just like in a comic book. Everything just kicking ass. You could almost wish to dream such a dream.

” Having said that … “

And then it started. Exactly in that nasty hard way – the feeling somebody’s chasing you and you cannot run, not even move. Only in this situation, I am in front of the computer and I cannot do anything. I am still considering ripping that UTP cable – I won’t be a pussy, let’s go to the end and see what happens. I couldn’t have imagined this tsunami in my wildest dreams – I’m completely paralyzed and numb but the sensory part of my CNS is fully operational. I can see, feel and hear everything – yet, I can’t do anything. The sick part is that my brain leaped one whole quantum level up! Each bit of the time and each bit of the input to my being will become more clear and better understood. Rape of reason and all the weak human parts of me in high res. It became worse than to have lost the control of the most basic body functions while being raped by a group of aliens with toxic saws and hooks attached to their cocks. Then, at that moment, the rape by Firefox and the terminal is perhaps the best way to describe this state – when you cannot breathe, let alone stand on your feet, and your vision starts to fade, first to bright light and then complete darkness – there is only a sense of movement around the internal organs. And it fucking laaaaasts. The metal pieces in me have long since been heated up by my blood so there is no fear of that first penetration and integrity breaking by the cold saw any more. Ironically, I began to have a Stockholm-effect. Fuck, I cannot write anymore about this, it’s goddamn hard! Give me a round-shot to spill my cerebellum Cobain-style.

Only this I can manage: All the java scripts went crazy and in some magical way dozens of active Firefox tabs become an evil supercomputer hydra with thousand heads destroying my being bit by bit. All that I am, all that I have sketched, all that I have written and all my conceptual work in which I put decades disappeared before my eyes. Irreversible. At this time, pulling the UTP cable out was completely pointless. My palms were wet and I figure their temperature must have been around -0.1 ° C (just to let the perspiration flow without freezing). Sweat also broke from my forehead and down the back of my neck. I had goose bumps on my back like animals in defense. I remember this same fear from the third grade when I did not bring my homework – my most conservative teacher in the universe frowned at me, I shit my pants and died the same way. The very last spasm of the most primitive biological defense in conflict with something completely intangible and yet unbearably present and sickly toxic. This was the end. Even if I mentally recovered from this, even if I became God after this, I’m sure I would be a hopelessly ill and frustrated God.

But this was not the end. Passed out and numb in the chair, cosmically fucked, with my pants pissed and full of shit, blood seeping from my mouth, I glanced at the screen. I saw him, nothing special going on, the guy typed on, same as usual. My biggest fear has instantaneously exploded! After all this, the guy plays a video on my screen and addresses me! Blood started seeping from my ears, and my shoulders fell off. I screamed like they were pounding a stake in what ‘s left of my ass.

This one was the devil until the end. Sharp, consistent and cool. He did all this to me to tell me to stop peering over his shoulder and mind my business. My Fear. My God. My Darkness. – My Idol!

I died and woke up at the same moment. Fuck java applets and web terminal and ssh and screw them all. I need a break.


One thought on “Human after all (english translation)

  1. Pingback: My Fear. My God. My Darkness. – My Idol! - Narrating fear

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