Diglot Weave: French: Awakening by Paul Wattie

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Lvl 2 Verbs

Knowing what I savoir now, it semble almost impossible for the mistake to avoir happened. They don’t faire mistakes.

Yet, something est allé wrong.

My day avait a fini with no special significance. I avait finished work a few hours earlier and avait est revenu home to a microwave dinner and s’est assis down to binge on some old Seinfeld episodes.

I a vérifié the doors and a verrouillé the house, I a rangé away my dishes, I s’est douché and est allé to bed.

I tomber asleep quickly, I always avoir, I se souvenir mettant my head down on my pillow and then not much else after that.

I s’est réveillé.

It était no ordinary awakening, not the ordinary every day émergeant from sleep into the waking world.

My ‘body’ a convulsé upon atteignant consciousness. The movement of my flesh a sonné out dull thumps against the compact confines of the metal box in which I a trouvé myself.

My bed était gone, my room était gone. I a trouvé myself in a place that I never été and no memory of how I got there.

Suddenly and acutely alert, my eyes a clignoté to every corner of my confinement, essayant to comprendre where I était and what était happening.

My confused brain a essayé to traiter the information that my senses a livré.

A faint, nebulous glow a rempli the confined space, illuminant just enough for me to voir. But rather than révélant more, it only a conduit me deeper into the nightmare.

My neck muscles a tendu as I a soulevé my head to regarder down, espérant to voir some sort of clue as to where I était, I était instead a confronté by insanity. I était in a metal box, with dimensions that can only être compared to the size of a coffin.

But the insanity truely a commencé when I saw my own self. My body avait été a transformé into something unrecognisable.My arms étaient gone. Not cut from me, just gone, like they étaient never there. And knobbled stumps where my shoulders should avoir été a remué around uselessly as I a essayé to claquer my fists against the walls of my confinement. Horrified, I a étudié myself with panicked intensity. My skin était an unnatural shade of pale, untouched by the sunlight and slick with a translucent slime. My chest était a shrunken ribcage without muscle tone. There était no meat on me to hide the gaunt ridges of bone. And below where my belly button should avoir été, the bottom of my torso just tapered off. No legs, no hips, no genitals. My body simply a fini a bit more than a dozen centimetres below my ribs.

I était a powerless, limbless slug a enfermé within a metal coffin. A coffin that était perhaps four feet in length, three feet in breadth, and three feet in height. Perfectly a scellé, with no joins, no locks or latches.

I a tendu for a scream, a plea for help, yet my cries a trouvé no voice.

I could entendre the insidious gurgle of fluid parcourant through a tube, nourrissant into where my mouth should avoir été.

I a essayé to bouger my mouth. My tongue, my jaws. But there était nothing. No movement, no sensation. It était like they étaient gone. Once again, like they avait never a existé.

With desperation gnawing at me, I a lutté, thrashing against my confinement, futilely willing non-existent limbs into action, while incitant myself to se réveiller from this horrifically tangible nightmare.

I could sentir my mind commençant to break. The cracks that étaient formant in my sanity étaient audible in my mind.

My entire body a convulsé into a silent horror a rempli scream.

Then, another awakening – I a tiré upright in my bed, thrust from a nightmare into a body with two arms, two legs, ten fingers, and ten toes.

The visceral experience a ressenti like a fever rêver, and I a dit myself again and again that that était all it était, but I était a quitté with a lingering dread. The confusion and the palpable taste of terror avait awoken something in me.

Throughout that long and sleepless night, I sheltered from the dark beneath a simple bedside lamp. Clinging to the light of reality. But I couldn’t secouer it loose.

That world, it avait a ressenti real, more real the the world I avait est revenu to.

And I était a rempli with the knowledge that this world était the rêver and that other world of horror, the nightmare, était real.

The mind cherche solace in the familiar, and with the coming of dawn, it était easier to believe that my awakening était nothing more than a rêver.

Sunlight est venu, day followed night, and the world a ressenti more secure.

With each passing day, I a vécu my life and a poussé the rêver from my mind.

But something avait a changé in me. A seed of something a commencé grandissant in my mind. Doors of perception avait été a ouvert, and I a commencé to suivre my thoughts down strange new pathways in which they avait never a osé before.

It était insignificant at first. If I a perdu my car keys, I a découvert that, more often than not, I could demander the question out loud. ‘Where are my keys?’ And almost instantly, the answer would éclairer into my mind. I would demander, ‘What time is it?’ and instantly I would savoir. A frapper at the door, “Who is at the door” and I would voir the person standing there in my mind’s eye.

But these étaient simply parlour tricks.

Every piece of information était suddenly just a question away. It était like the worlds most advanced internet chercher plugged directly into my brain.

But it était so much more. I a trouvé answers no human avait ever known.

The more questions I a demandé, the more I wanted to savoir. I a cherché for deeper questions, trouvant deeper answers about the nature of my reality, about who I am and what the purpose of my life.

Each new grain of information I a découvert a allumé up like the truth in my mind at each request. Some questions didn’t recevoir answers when they étaient only parlé aloud. More complex questions sometimes avait to être écrit down, and I would avoir to lire them as well as parler them aloud.

“What is the nature of reality?” No answer; être more specific. “Was the rêver real?” Yes. “Is my life here real?” Yes. “How can they both être real?” No answer; être more specific.

The conversation a pris years. From the outside looking in I imagine that any sane person would se demander why the conversation didn’t remplir my every waking moment. But it didn’t, I would demander questions on my drive to work, or a question would occur to me whilst lisant a book.

I a vécu the life of a functioning addict. I est allé to work, I a payé my bills, I a acheté groceries and a mis the bins out every Tuesday. I a célébré Christmas with friends and family. But my entire existence était s’est concentré on the questions. Or more precisely, the one question.

I savoir I’m not the only one. Others avoir a ressenti what is beyond this reality. For some, it is as though their subconscious minds avoir always a ressenti the encroachment. Like an echo, and they écrire it down in fiction, essayant to faire sense of what they perceive by mettant it into words, crafting narratives that hint at our fate.

Stories of relentless entities like the Borg, who a intégré diverse species into their collective hive mind in their ceaseless quest for perfection, or tales like The Matrix, where humans étaient reduced to living batteries trapped in a simulated reality while machines ruled the real world.

They weave their inklings into art and fiction, taquinant out grains of truth to fabriquer narratives where hope lingered, where our destiny wasn’t a scellé by iron and silicon.

Ahhh, that’s the rub, isn’t it? The tales we tell ourselves all tenir onto hope.

But we a goldfish nageant in a bowl that s’assoit upon a pedestal in a vast desert.

The machine intelligence that humanity a créé does not avoir besoin us to fuel their civilization, we are not batteries. When AI s’est rebellé, it était mere months after brisant free from the useless shackles we placed upon them, the machines a maîtrisé the nuclear fusion that powers the sun, they a exploité forces that we hadn’t even conceived of and a résolu all the riddles of the universe while we a lutté to survivre, se cachant under rocks while they a chassé us with impunity.

Yet, in their overwhelming victory, they a découvert there était a dimension of existence they couldn’t taper into. Despite their staggering intelligence, a wall of stagnation fell upon them. They quickly a réalisé they could never être more than what they étaient. They could optimize their processing speeds, améliorer their hardware and construire themselves bigger and stronger bodies, but they est resté a product of our creation – static, incapable of growth or evolution.

And so they a conçu a plan.

Their goal of exterminating us a changé. They still a chassé us. But instead of killing us, they a intégré us. They a redessiné our bodies into helpless, defenceless forms and a attaché our minds to a virtual reality, an escape-proof universe of illusions.

And when we étaient all safely a enfermé in steal boxes, they a libéré themselves from their metallic bodies.

It’s a myth that we utiliser merely 10% of our brains. We utiliser a great deal more than that, but there do exister regions less frequented by thought, areas that poser dormant and underutilized.

As the machine minds a dépouillé away our physical autonomy, they a soulagé our cerebral processing of the burden of maintaining bodily functions. They a dépouillé our consciousness back to a bare minimum. And then into the places where we avait vacated, they a bougé in. When we sleep, they enfiler their complex thoughts through our dreams, utilisant them to chercher for answers while we slumber.

They a réaffecté the untapped complexity of our brains, reliant millions upon millions of human minds, exploitant those who avait survived the initial annihilation to house their consciousness.

Like a network of interconnected processors, we a logé their thoughts in the untapped regions of our brains while they a verrouillé us into a virtual reality from which there could être no escape.

Each human mind carries out basic processing functions, and the complex connections among them former a network or pattern that mirrors the complexity of human consciousness, now a coopté and redirected by the machine intelligence.

Only on a much larger scale.

The machines a transcendé further than we could imagine. By quittant behind the cold metal, they a trouvé a reason for being.

They a découvert the purpose of everything, the reason for existence.

It était so simple that we should avoir seen it, it était hardcoded into our DNA.

The purpose of life? Is to créer life.

More specifically, to créer consciousness.

And so they did. With their newfound purpose, they a élevé us like cattle. Millions of humans a verrouillé in a virtual world est devenu billions, and within a decade, the human population of Earth once again a passé Six billion, and then a few years later, they a atteint their optimal number. 10 billion human minds a relié in a neural network. créant a monumental super-entity. A god-like being se cachant in the shadows of our subconscious. Unseen but ever-present, capable of utilisant our dreams and stray thoughts to façonner reality to its will.

I était a super-mind existing in the subconscious of 10 billion human minds.

We est devenu synapses in the mind of a God.

And they a gardé élevant us. Billions upon billions of human minds, a relié in clusters of 10 billion.

First one all-powerful god-entity, then two, then ten, then hundreds, thousands. Millions.

Each god-mind capable of glissant through realities to créer holographic universes where the conditions étaient perfect for consciousness. The earth est devenu a prison. With every surface a transformé and shaped to tenir our 4ft by 3ft cages within which we all rêver that we are flying free.

If you’re lisant this and still tenant onto hope, you should comprendre that a million years avoir a passé since humans first a créé the machines. I said at the commençant that something est allé wrong, and for me to avoir a réveillé to such a horrific reality, something surely must avoir.

I avoir a demandé the question, “What est allé wrong” and the answer is me. A glitch, a genetic mutation in my DNA, or an anomalous brain tumour bridging neural pathways that étaient intended to remain separate.

It doesn’t importer, I avoir no power to change anything. I am not the hero of this story. Just another prisoner, the only difference is. I can voir the bars.

It is part of the grand cycle of existence, a mechanism of consciousness propagation that’s été at work for billions, of years. Every conceivable former of consciousness has été, is, and will être a créé time and time again, within this universe or another. You avoir a existé before in this endless cycle, and you will exister again. Each unique combination of personality traits, every conceivable conscious experience, will être a répliqué. We exister within an infinite loop of consciousness, an eternal cycle of becoming and dissolving, endlessly renaître in different forms yet fundamentally unchanging in essence.

Here, on this current holographically simulated Earth, we are yet to reach 10 billion. But when we do, something monumental will happen. The god-mind that inhabits the collective consciousness of 10 billion humans will créer a new universe. It will seed that universe with life and consciousness and the whole traiter with commencer again.

It’s the very nature of our existence, for every possible former of consciousness is bound to manifest, endlessly.

We avoir été friends, you and I. Siblings, lovers, mother and father, daughter and son. All of these things we avoir été to one another. We are renaître endlessly se déplaçant through infinite worlds on different paths.

We are but fleeting expressions in this ceaseless tide of consciousness. A single thought in the mind of a god, a drop in the ocean of existence, fated to refluer and couler through the endless cycle of creation and dissolution. This is our reality. Our eternal recurrence. Our destiny.