2Q8, that is my name. I used to be named Paul, but times have changed. The digital age has arrived, algorithms embed our physical existence. My name is 2Q8, because I know what my name is, my history, where I am going. Paul use to be my name, it was a name resting loosely on papyrus leaves. My name is now etched into every piece of hardware, software, algorithm (self-feeding).
Today, feels colder, slower. Colors feel dreamy, the blue of the sky dripping down like a sieve of water. I do not contemplate the state of the world anymore, the state of Being, rather, I feather out my attention to the minute. I am coding, therefore, I enjoy the lines of code, now. Stress, I have begun to realize, is a weight, a weakness. It is a failure to loosen the grip on chance. For just as there are a million ways something may go wrong, there may be one-hundred thousand ways it might go right.
It is genuinely mathematical, my flatness. My mediocrity. My desire to blend in with the sunrise and sunset colors: blue and pink.
Take for example yesterday, I was sitting having coffee with a friend. A jolly, round, somewhat flowery a person. He wears his sunglasses on his head, looping behind the ears. They are white. They stand out, I see his glasses before I see him. But he is not self-conscious. Not craving the applause of a stranger. Not even my applause- probably. He limps, somewhat, from an ailment. It was a case of doctor negligence. A doctors inability to solve a problem, a problem they had never seen before. Had no prescribed answer. His body rolls, now, it moves with his calculating mind: slowly, then faster, slowly. Repeat.
Take for example yesterday, having coffee with this friend. We had no scheme, no plan, no expectations. We arrived, we chatted, we left. I felt no cooler, no warmer, after. I felt my mind deepen into the crags of danger. Falling deeper into the trap of loosing color, and therefore orientation, to my life. One cloud of air, that is my lung. One whisp of color, that is my heart. Each of these experiences endangered, and also count what makes up my life. I feel it beating against my legs, stomach, arms, like a mist in a tropical land.