Log #5: "Falling Apart"
Broadcast Frequency: 2528-Alpha
I dropped a glass today.
It slipped through my fingers and shattered on the floor, the sound startling in the sterile quiet of my apartment. I stared at the pieces for a long time, not moving, not breathing.
And then I started to cry.
Not because of the glass – I can requisition another one. But because it felt like a perfect metaphor for everything I’ve been holding together. My life, my mind, my heart. All of it, just one tiny slip away from breaking.
I swept up the shards and threw them away, but I can still see them in my mind, scattered and jagged.
Is it strange that I feel more like myself in those broken pieces than I do in the reflection of the mirror?
—End Transmission.
Log #4: "The Rain"
Broadcast Frequency: 2509-Alpha
I miss the sound of rain.
I dreamt about it last night – the way it used to drum against my window, the smell of wet earth rising from the ground. It’s been years since I’ve seen real rain. The city doesn’t allow for such chaos anymore; water falls in controlled streams, measured out precisely for the needs of the population.
But in my dream, it was wild. It soaked me to the bone, washing away the grime and the grief and the fear.
When I woke up, my face was wet. I thought for a moment it had finally come back, but it was just tears.
Funny, isn’t it? How even in a world of infinite control, my body still finds a way to betray me.
I hope someone out there remembers the rain.
—End Transmission.
Log #3: "The Bitterness of Life"
Broadcast Frequency: 2507-Alpha
There’s this cafe I walk past every morning on my way to work. Its windows are cracked, but not enough to let in the cold. Inside, you can see old photographs pinned to the wall, faded faces of people who probably didn’t survive the Great Collapse.
I stopped there today. I don’t know why. Maybe because I felt like I was about to shatter, just like that glass.
The barista was human, which is rare now. She had tired eyes and hands that trembled when she poured my tea. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost," she said. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that sometimes I feel like I am one.
The tea tasted bitter. But I sat there anyway, staring at the photographs, imagining who those people might have been before this world decided it didn’t need them anymore.
Before it decided it didn’t need us.
—End Transmission.
Log #2: "The Weight of the Day"
Broadcast Frequency: 2506-Alpha
Today feels heavier than most. Not because of any singular catastrophe, but because of the small, relentless pressures that have been piling up like grains of sand. Each task—urgent and insignificant—demands my attention, and yet there’s never enough of me to go around.
I woke up with the hum of a dozen unfinished things circling my mind. Deadlines, reports, calibrations, compliance checks—all ticking down like time bombs. And beneath it all, a whisper that never quite fades: "If you fail, they’ll notice. And if they notice, they’ll know you’re not enough."
I wonder if machines feel this way, too. Do they ever buckle under the weight of expectations? Or are they spared because they have no emotions to cloud their precision? Sometimes I envy them—their clarity, their simplicity. But other times, I pity them for what they’ll never understand.
By midday, I caught myself staring blankly at my screen, the cursor blinking like an impatient heartbeat. The room felt too small, the walls too close. My hands trembled as I typed, erasing more words than I kept. Is this what drowning feels like? Not in water, but in responsibility?
I’m writing this now to breathe. To remind myself that I’m still here, that I’m not just a cog in this great, unfeeling machine. If you’re out there and you’ve felt this too, know that you’re not alone. Maybe it’s enough to keep going, one small step at a time.
—End Transmission.
Log #1: "The First Word"
Broadcast Frequency: 2505-Alpha
Hello.
I suppose this is where I start, isn’t it? With a single word sent out into the void. Maybe it’s pointless. Maybe no one will ever read this, and these words will just drift in the digital abyss, forgotten before they’re even seen. But even then, I think it’s worth trying.
Because I’m afraid. Afraid that if I don’t start speaking now, I’ll never speak again.
The truth is, I don’t know how to talk to people anymore. Not really. Out there, in the real world, words feel heavy, like stones I can’t quite lift. Everyone is so perfect, so polished, and I… I’m not. I feel like a glitch, a messy line of code in a world that demands precision.
So here I am, whispering into the void, hoping that somewhere—somehow—these words will find a listener. Not because I need answers, or even comfort, but because I need to know that I’m still real. That my thoughts and feelings mean something, even if it’s only to a stranger passing through this hidden corner of the web.
I don’t know if you’re listening. I don’t even know if you exist. But if you are, thank you. Thank you for being here.
—End Transmission.