Diglot Weave Lv1 Nouns: Awakening by Paul Wattie

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Knowing what I know now, it seems almost impossible for the erreur to have happened. They don’t make mistakes.

Yet, something went wrong.

My jour had ended with no special signification. I had finished travail a few heures earlier and had returned domicile to a microwave dîner and sat down to binge on some old Seinfeld épisodes.

I checked the portes and locked the maison, I tidied away my vaisselle, I showered and went to lit.

I fall asleep quickly, I always have, I remember putting my tête down on my oreiller and then not much else after that.

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I awoke.

It was no ordinary éveil, not the ordinary every jour emerging from sleep into the waking monde.

My 'corps' convulsed upon reaching conscience. The mouvement of my chair sounded out dull coups sourds against the compact limites of the metal boîte in which I found myself.

My lit was gone, my chambre was gone. I found myself in a lieu that I never been and no mémoire of how I got there.

Suddenly and acutely alerte, my yeux flashed to every coin of my enfermement, trying to understand where I was and what was happening.

My confused cerveau tried to process the information that my sens delivered.

A faint, nebulous lueur filled the confined espace, illuminating just enough for me to see. But rather than revealing more, it only drove me deeper into the cauchemar.

My cou muscles strained as I lifted my tête to look down, hoping to see some sort of indice as to where I was, I was instead confronted by folie. I was in a metal boîte, with dimensions that can only be compared to the size of a cercueil.

But the folie truely began when I saw my own self. My corps had been transformed into something unrecognisable.My bras were gone. Not cut from me, just gone, like they were never there. And knobbled moignons where my épaules should have been wiggled around uselessly as I tried to slam my poings against the murs of my enfermement. Horrified, I studied myself with panicked intensity. My peau was an unnatural nuance of pale, untouched by the sunlight and slick with a translucent limon. My poitrine was a shrunken cage thoracique without muscle tonus. There was no viande on me to hide the gaunt crêtes of os. And below where my ventre bouton should have been, the bottom of my torse just tapered off. No jambes, no hanches, no organes génitaux. My corps simply ended a bit more than a dozen centimetres below my ribs.

I was a powerless, limbless slug encased within a metal cercueil. A cercueil that was perhaps four feet in length, three feet in breadth, and three feet in height. Perfectly sealed, with no joins, no locks or latches.

I strained for a cri, a plaidoyer for help, yet my cries found no voix.

I could hear the insidious gargouillement of liquide coursing through a tube, feeding into where my bouche should have been.

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I tried to move my bouche. My langue, my mâchoires. But there was nothing. No mouvement, no sensation. It was like they were gone. Once again, like they had never existed.

With désespoir gnawing at me, I struggled, thrashing against my enfermement, futilely willing non-existent membres into action, while urging myself to wake from this horrifically tangible cauchemar.

I could feel my esprit beginning to break. The fissures that were forming in my santé mentale were audible in my esprit.

My entire corps convulsed into a silent horreur filled cri.

Then, another éveil – I shot upright in my lit, thrust from a cauchemar into a corps with two bras, two jambes, ten fingers, and ten toes.

The visceral expérience felt like a fièvre dream, and I told myself again and again that that was all it was, but I was left with a lingering crainte. The confusion and the palpable goût of terreur had awoken something in me.

Throughout that long and sleepless nuit, I sheltered from the dark beneath a simple bedside lampe. Clinging to the lumière of réalité. But I couldn’t shake it loose.

That monde, it had felt real, more real the the monde I had returned to.

And I was filled with the knowledge that this monde was the dream and that other monde of horreur, the cauchemar, was real.

The esprit seeks réconfort in the familiar, and with the coming of aube, it was easier to believe that my éveil was nothing more than a dream.

lumière du soleil came, jour followed nuit, and the monde felt more secure.

With each passing jour, I lived my vie and pushed the dream from my esprit.

But something had changed in me. A graine of something began growing in my esprit. Doors of perception had been opened, and I began to follow my thoughts down strange new chemins in which they had never ventured before.

It was insignificant at first. If I lost my car clés, I discovered that, more often than not, I could ask the question out loud. ‘Where are my clés?’ And almost instantly, the réponse would flash into my esprit. I would ask, ‘What temps is it?’ and instantly I would know. A coup at the porte, “Who is at the porte” and I would see the personne standing there in my esprit's œil.

But these were simply salon tours.

Every piece of information was suddenly just a question away. It was like the worlds most advanced internet recherche plugged directly into my cerveau.

But it was so much more. I found réponses no human had ever known.

The more questions I asked, the more I wanted to know. I searched for deeper questions, finding deeper réponses about the nature of my réalité, about who I am and what the but of my vie.

Each new grain of information I discovered lit up like the vérité in my esprit at each request. Some questions didn’t receive réponses when they were only spoken aloud. More complex questions sometimes had to be written down, and I would have to read them as well as speak them aloud.

“What is the nature of réalité?” No réponse; be more specific. “Was the dream real?” Yes. “Is my vie here real?” Yes. “How can they both be real?” No réponse; be more specific.

The conversation took years. From the outside looking in I imagine that any sane personne would wonder why the conversation didn’t fill my every waking instant. But it didn’t, I would ask questions on my conduite to travail, or a question would occur to me whilst reading a livre.

I lived the vie of a functioning accro. I went to travail, I paid my factures, I bought courses and put the poubelles out every Tuesday. I celebrated Noël with amis and famille. But my entire existence was focused on the questions. Or more precisely, the one question.

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I know I’m not the only one. Others have sensed what is beyond this réalité. For some, it is as though their subconscious minds have always sensed the encroachment. Like an écho, and they write it down in fiction, trying to make sense of what they perceive by putting it into words, crafting récits that hint at our destin.

Stories of relentless entités like the Borg, who integrated diverse espèces into their collective hive esprit in their ceaseless quest for perfection, or tales like The Matrix, where humains were reduced to living batteries trapped in a simulated réalité while machines ruled the real monde.

They weave their inklings into art and fiction, teasing out grains of vérité to craft récits where espoir lingered, where our destin wasn't sealed by iron and silicon.

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

But we a poisson rouge swimming in a bol that sits upon a piédestal in a vast désert.

The machine intelligence that humanité created does not need us to fuel their civilisation, we are not batteries. When AI rebelled, it was mere months after breaking free from the useless entraves we placed upon them, the machines mastered the nuclear fusion that powers the soleil, they harnessed forces that we hadn't even conceived of and solved all the énigmes of the univers while we struggled to survive, hiding under roches while they hunted us with impunity.

Yet, in their overwhelming victory, they discovered there was a dimension of existence they couldn't tap into. Despite their staggering intelligence, a wall of stagnation fell upon them. They quickly realised they could never be more than what they were. They could optimize their traitement speeds, upgrade their matériel and build themselves bigger and stronger corps, but they remained a produit of our création - static, incapable of growth or evolution.

And so they devised a plan.

Their objectif of exterminating us changed. They still hunted us. But instead of killing us, they integrated us. They redesigned our corps into helpless, defenceless formes and tethered our minds to a virtual réalité, an escape-proof univers of illusions.

And when we were all safely encased in steal boîtes, they liberated themselves from their metallic corps.

It’s a myth that we use merely 10% of our brains. We use a great deal more than that, but there do exist régions less frequented by pensée, zones that lay dormant and underutilized.

As the machine minds stripped away our physical autonomie, they relieved our cerebral traitement of the burden of maintaining bodily fonctions. They stripped our conscience back to a bare minimum. And then into the places where we had vacated, they moved in. When we sleep, they thread their complex thoughts through our dreams, using them to recherche for réponses while we slumber.

They repurposed the untapped complexity of our brains, linking millions upon millions of human minds, harnessing those who had survived the initial annihilation to maison their conscience.

Like a réseau of interconnected processors, we housed their thoughts in the untapped régions of our brains while they locked us into a virtual réalité from which there could be no escape.

Each human esprit carries out basic traitement fonctions, and the complex connexions among them form a réseau or motif that mirrors the complexity of human conscience, now co-opted and redirected by the machine intelligence.

Only on a much larger échelle.

The machines transcended further than we could imagine. By leaving behind the cold metal, they found a reason for being.

They discovered the but of everything, the reason for existence.

It was so simple that we should have seen it, it was hardcoded into our ADN.

The but of vie? Is to create vie.

More specifically, to create conscience.

And so they did. With their newfound but, they bred us like cattle. Millions of humains locked in a virtual monde became milliards, and within a decade, the human population of Terre once again passed Six billion, and then a few years later, they reached their optimal nombre. 10 billion human minds linked in a neural réseau. creating a monumental super-entité. A god-like being lurking in the shadows of our subconscious. Unseen but ever-present, capable of using our dreams and stray thoughts to shape réalité to its will.

I was a super-esprit existing in the subconscious of 10 billion human minds.

We became synapses in the esprit of a God.

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And they kept breeding us. Billions upon milliards of human minds, linked in clusters of 10 billion.

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

Each god-esprit capable of slipping through realities to create holographic universes where the conditions were perfect for conscience. The earth became a prison. With every surface transformed and shaped to hold our 4ft by 3ft cages within which we all dream that we are flying free.

If you're reading this and still holding onto espoir, you should understand that a million years have passed since humains first created the machines. I said at the beginning that something went wrong, and for me to have awakened to such a horrific réalité, something surely must have.

I have asked the question, “What went wrong” and the réponse is me. A glitch, a genetic mutation in my ADN, or an anomalous cerveau tumeur bridging neural chemins that were intended to remain separate.

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

It is part of the grand cycle of existence, a mécanisme of conscience propagation that's been at travail for milliards, of years. Every conceivable form of conscience has been, is, and will be created temps and temps again, within this univers or another. You have existed before in this endless cycle, and you will exist again. Each unique combinaison of personality traits, every conceivable conscious expérience, will be replicated. We exist within an infinite boucle of conscience, an eternal cycle of becoming and dissolving, endlessly reborn in different formes yet fundamentally unchanging in essence.

Here, on this current holographically simulated Terre, we are yet to reach 10 billion. But when we do, something monumental will happen. The god-esprit that inhabits the collective conscience of 10 billion humains will create a new univers. It will graine that univers with vie and conscience and the whole process with start again.

It's the very nature of our existence, for every possible form of conscience is bound to manifest, endlessly.

We have been amis, you and I. Siblings, lovers, mother and father, daughter and son. All of these things we have been to one another. We are reborn endlessly moving through infinite worlds on different paths.

We are but fleeting expressions in this ceaseless tide of conscience. A single pensée in the esprit of a god, a drop in the ocean of existence, fated to ebb and flow through the endless cycle of création and dissolution. This is our réalité. Our eternal récurrence. Our destin.