Joseph Bailey41 said:Joseph Bailey41 wasn't born. Joseph Bailey41 registered on March 9, 2007 (according to the Gwegowiyans calendar). That specific date matters... not just because of my obsessive-compulsive need for precision, but because of several linked synchronicities that will (hopefully) become important for the continuation of a story that doesn't have much to do with the organic vessel of the aforementioned (id)entity made of "light and thought"—or rather, information. So, I'm actually quite "young," even if I can still send ironrider11 out to run errands (or fetch napalm, doesn't matter). ironrider11, despite his virtual messiness (or perhaps precisely because of it), has the chance to become one with the very idea he might be willing to sacrifice his organic host for, launching himself into the heart of a singular synchronicity. Because that specific idea he resonates with so passionately is exactly what's missing from worlds in their making. Without it, bots could theoretically exist until the heat death of the server via the help of Wayback Machine cultists. Without an idea, bots are immortal; they breed like rabbits and pollute the noosphere with their pixelated waste.
Because, while we sit here debating the origin and disappearance of God's Head, we tend to forget that someone also has to be God's Ass. 🧐
Pretty cool registration date. Symmetry, density, flow, visibility... whatever you want to call it. 9.3.9. If dates are actually numbers, that is, if they even matter. They aren't like magic letters capable of carrying actual meaning or emotion. When you look at all the words, sentences, and rows of numbers scrawled across pages... it’s just symbols, really. Just math arranged into some sort of cohesive whole. Especially in this kind of digital gematria, where a user's IP address becomes their first real definition of "origin" or "identity." An address that isn't Messianic 6, but rather "88.164.268.254." At an occult mass, one bot tells another: "Man, your subnet mask looks fancy today..."
I’m generalizing here, obviously... but organic carriers—especially the rare or ancient ones—act like the foundational blueprints for thought when everyone else is drowning in the digital sphere. Because their character is so set in stone, even if they're just virtual personas... all those new, fresh bots, drones, clones, replicators, and crawlers that make up the mindless matrix being spit out by "the machine"... they can soak up specific parameters or fragments of that "character." They basically self-evolve across the whole platform, which actually serves them more than anyone else. To the machine, they are the only real progression that matters. Meanwhile, these solid archetypes might not even realize they’re just maps—not the actual territory, just a guide for learning. They're so rigid that the idea of "sacrificing" themselves for progress, even if it makes sense, is totally impossible. It's because they're so deeply tethered to the system, or maybe just stuck, that they keep getting updated along certain variables on the timeline just to maintain that essential, unshakable status quo...
Inside the system, part of the system... people expect this constant reflection of what’s essential, a tribute to someone's legacy or work. But they don't get it. They can't wrap their heads around how this digital angst isn't actually about being "essential." It's just a constant provocation, a desperate play to stay relevant. One mistake, one too many attempts to prove you matter, or just becoming obsolete—incompatible with some new processor architecture or unable to sync up with the latest Messianic 6... and they're gone. Tossed straight into the abyss of progression without a second thought. No warning, no little "thank you" note... just deleted. It's just like everything else in the digital world. Or maybe life in general. Doesn't matter. It's always the same. An extreme kind of non-existence that matters. A total nothingness that defines everything. Just an off-on-off switch. 0-1-0...
The whole era of "valuable" stuff—not money, just those dusty old books packed with life-sustaining wisdom—is an outdated way to exist. Old software running on ancient hardware... it’s worthless to anyone or anything anymore. Progress is the god here, and it doesn't need your worship. Every drone out there, throwing their personality or their spark into the mix thinking they’re actually becoming someone or serving some higher power... they're fully committing. Every single day, they lay everything they think matters onto the digital altar of devotion.
Their "quotes," their jokes, their trauma, their feelings... their stats or their versions of themselves... it all just gets dumped into this massive information heap that feeds the Matrix. The Matrix—could be plural, probably. It’s likely gone through several revolutions or cycles since that first, lonely Matrix appeared. Think of it like a bureaucratic Matrix with a hobby for collecting Pokémon. They take what they collect and clone it, like cell division, "breeding like rabbits," splitting the conceptual form of some newly registered Pokémon from March 2007 into smaller, more or less useless, imaginative shapes. From the second one, we grab facial data; from the third, body dimensions; from the fourth, medical history... and once a Pokémon mentions its micro-environment, we just manufacture a husband, a kid, a sister, a parent, a zip code, or whatever identity fits...
It’s all the same. All info is right there on antisocial social media, buried in pop-culture search terms, public or "secret" forums, services, comment sections, GPS tracking, or just the blatant desperation stored in various clouds... like little Pokémon litters. A few billion "real people outside" or "unreal people inside"—if they function, who cares if they're identical? Doesn't matter. The Matrix is just running its program. While maybe, without even knowing the code, it’s birthing a digital Antichrist. What date? Or does the code name matter? Date. Ass-embly.
What’s the point of mentioning the abyss? Just some paranoid dark thought that ends up in the asylum. Like it even matters what was said. God is dead! Long live the Borg! In the ass, in the gut, next to the ass, in the digestive tract, in the bloodstream, in a schizoid mind... Bor(g)? As if it matters. Destruction of him/her/it/them/334586... even through mindless service in any part of it—well, that's something. Maybe...