âââNow the rest of the night wasnât spent doinâ anythinâ productive. I got drunk, and ate my pizza; the whole damn thing. Did my stomach make its grievances known? Yup, sure as shit did. But with a whatever moments I had before passinâ out were spent savinâ the work on my PC, organizinâ the papers on my desk, and glancing now and then at the portrait of this thing that I owned for whatever fuckinâ reason; Iâd be lyinâ if I didnât say it was mainly so I could bitch at it now and then because what else was I supposed to do, yell in its general direction. Well, yeah I did that too, letâs be honest. And between my drunken belches and grumbles I did eventually manage to get to bed, even if it took a while despite the specter of a hangover possibly loominâ over me. Now if only I could do somethinâ about the dreams. Thankfully, they donât happen often, as my âabilityâ to âtune inâ to the Superorganism like some sorta meat-powered radio isâŚsomethinâ, thatâs for sure. I should probably start my day. Get up you, at least brush your hair and teeth before you leave. But about ninety percent of the time I did it of my own volition. As to how it works? Well, weâll put a pin in that for later. For now, I had no idea; all I knew was that it worked, once in a blue moon, during an eclipse, on a night when I was sober. The way I saw it was like this; imagine, if you will, receivinâ the entire encyclopedia britannicaâs text â all of it â and only being able to make out three sentences at a time. Oh they werenât consecutive sentences either, no, just three random sentences.
âââToothpaste first, then wet it, there you go. Just try to ignore your reflection please, itâll be easier. But the dreams â those damn dreams â haunted me when they did happen. They were flashbacks almost, back to that day when I was wired directly to it; and I could feel almost everything. I still wasnât able to make out what it was thinkinâ on a good day, but thatâs different. They werenât its thoughts â and by gods Iâm going to sound batshit insane but hear me out â but they were glimpses into what the experience of being this organism is. This is what teenage me was trying to convey with parts of her writinâ, albeit poorly. The sensations that could get through to me were profound, and hard to put into words. Imagine feeling massive-
âââOh gods I. For fuckâs sake⌠I was reminded of what I had been searchinâ for last night. That is to say, the scale of this thing. Sixty miles across not including limbs, 160 miles with the limbs. That knowledge would not sit well. Stupid idiot. Spit out your toothpaste.
âââBut, to get back on track. Imagine the state of Connecticut, except itâs alive and sentient. Thatâs what I was workinâ with. In these dreams, I was no longer just a six-foot-nothinâ human from Dallas; I was â and by the gods this sounds crazy â the superorganism. Not literally, no, but for fleetinâ moments in these dreams I would feel what it feels and as it feels them. I could feel its immense size, its weight, its âmoodâ state if that was even the right word to use; I could vaguely sense malaise, contentment, and â with my tongue beinâ as limited as it is â its comfort, as well as many other aspects that words alone fail to communicate. But those were all human concepts, and you must never ascribe human concepts to somethinâ so profoundly inhuman. That did not, however, change the fact that those concepts mentioned were how I felt during these dreams; and given both the fact that I could feel what it was like beinâ that thing â like I did that day in â07 â and the fact that those feelings were powerfully real, I couldnât help but make the connection. There was a strange exaltation during these episodes, a relief. A sense of fulfillment, certainty, comfort. It was as if I was back where I belonged. And that was the scary part. Seeing myself as a part of this thing meant to be rejoined to it brought solace, and seeing it and myself as the same thing? That was where it got scary; because that line of thinkinâ brought me a feeling so blissful that even the most open-minded of people would consider thowinâ me in a padded room lest I speak of it too much. Now I donât think these dreams were me literally hookinâ up to this thing. My guess was that my mind was using the experiences from my time wired up to it and mish-moshinâ them with the effects that normally occurred when I was tuned in to this thing. And now is the part where we oughta get into what I thought it had done to me.
âââTeeth are brushed, just get dressed and sit down. While getting dressed like I do every morning I would still be plagued with thoughts of what my â for the lack of a better term â link to this thing both was and meant. The working theory is that it didnât exchange tissues with me, but that it also had implanted some of its own neurology in me. Assimilation was the term used, or at least itâs whatâd come to mind. By this logic it had taken pieces of me almost as if it had been collectinâ samples, then itâd swapped in bits from itself in place of what it had taken. Those pieces would come to form the ballast bulbule tissue in my chest, as well as the alterations responsible for my vision changes. On top of that, itâd likely taken pieces of my neurology and swapped them out too. But I couldnât begin to guess what that meant. One arm in, then the other, then your head. Right, now youâre all dressed. Just get back to your desk, alright? Weâre not finished hereâŚ
âââAt least, thatâd been the workinâ theory; to this day even I never knew if it had done so intentionally or not â though that requires it to be able to intend at all â or if whatâd happened was simply the result of natural biological processes that the superorganism simply did without thinking much like how we digest food. The only thing that lead me to believe at the time that there couldâve been intention behind it was one particular bit from the disaster report about how people rescued from it had gone back into the thing for reasons unknown; no sane person would willingly give themselves to the maw of that thing. I had surmised that itâs simply curious about us. It sure seemed like it. Curiosity never indicated malevolence or benevolence; I for the longest time and to this day held the flesh pit to simply be indifferent to us, even if teenage me hadnât written it that way. But curiosity can still be indifferent. What itâd done to me could still be done indifferently. And, most of all, my feelings never once indicated that itâd picked me that day. They instead â when inquired about â gave the impression of right/wrong place at the right/wrong time depending on how you looked at it. Regardless of its view â if the superorganism cared or not â one thing had been made clear to me that day.
âââIt wants to learn about us, for whatever reason.
âââAnd I wanted nothinâ more than to learn about it to the fullest extent, even it killed me.