iPhone notes collection

July–October 2021

Floaters

They were too unremarkable to notice at first. Or mistaken for some dust on your glasses, some common visual statics.

Then you begin to sense them. Tiny transparent and indefinitely tiny dots, invisible save for the sunniest horizons. One might take an interest in them (Do not take an interest in them). Yet mild disturbances they remain.

Then they proceed to become a familiar sight. You see them bobbing leisurely in the blue sky. You see them darting to and fro on your bedroom walls. You see them at every corner of your eyes.

You see their delicate geometry and their abhorrent annoyance.
You see them dash across the twilight and calmly falls down.
You see now that they follow your gaze. You see later that your gaze follows them.

You see as the floaters fall from the heavens

You see as the floaters multiply

You see them all day long now, gently follow where they floats towards

You don't see anything else as more than a background for them

You stare at them, all day now
Occasionally, they stare back

What happens after

You suddenly woke again, amidst a palest white that stretched from horizon to horizon. There was naught a surface, soon realized, and naught a body, right afterwards. There was a mind though, and it's thoughts. There were no memories, no desires, no meaning, not an emotion. There was. A screen of some sort, as you remember it, was in the distance. The only thing you can make out between this barren pure whiteness. It was less of a screen, and more a hole, a tunnel beyond physical and temporal. It was huge in a sense beyond comprehension, yet familiar and nostalgic. It was broadcasting your life. From the moments you were born into the world, to your first scars, first loves, passions, and tears. Your naivety and narcissistic self of youth. Your anxious and tiresome middle life. Your silent old self. It was giving off the worse regrets and unfulfilled ambitions, all words left unsaid and thing yet done. Had it been another, he may have broken down and screamed for a life that he supposedly had. Yet none moved you. A bit surprised, even. Unjudgingly, you watched. You watched until you noticed there was more watching. You saw no eyes though, no sense of an observer or audience. You know they are here though, as disembodied and as indifferent from the cosmos as you. They watch also. Had they been truly corporeal, as vessels with expressions, they may have laughed. They may have cried. May have at your life reflected into this giant hole of being. You know they do not judge. Your life ends on the screen, and it fades out. Then another, without familiarity, another being was shown. Her childhood, her dreams, her agonies. You know she is here now. Then another, then another. For an eternity

Cloudscape

To this day still, I delight myself at the sight of clouds, no matter their sizes and shades, they have always had me mesmerized. I recall the first time I saw a cloud when I was but a 4 year old, when the world has yet to become habitual. I vividly remember that its monstrosity amazed me, its texture touched me, its chasm of patterned curls, it horrified me. I was afraid of its seemingly unending outline, broken only by the static blue of the skyline. Time went by and it became less distressful, less interesting. To a point I forgot the existence of clouds. Then I witnessed them again on several occasions, one paid me a visit for a recently passed relative, and one in my seventieth upload ceremony, congratulating me. Rarely, I watch them gently float below, consuming the faulty. They deliver me great joy.

Late sleeps

A tragedy. One without bloodshed, without anguish, without horrors, but tragic nonetheless. I see it unfurling in the midst of velvet nights when lamplights are dim and the black moon cease howling. I see it touch every of the silent residents within this intersection between financial and residential districts. I see it when ambitions and trivialities come grinding to a halt, if only for a brief fleeting moment, I see purity. I see them, guided into their own infinities, and to where there were no closed doors. I see some wander to the eternal library, where they spent aeons with knowledge and thousands of stories. I see some stood before a canvas spanning to the cosmos's rear, and weaved their brush in maddening patterns. I see some dwelved in divine comfort and transcended all holy bodies. I see some with grace, some with wisdom, with passion, with endless appreciation for beingness. I see them all, friend, for I had placed them there. If only for a brief fleeting moment. Before they would awaken with messy hair and get back to their desk, ordered to push buttons on a pixelated screen. Before they would throw themselves into the finites and the particulars. Before the last of them return to have their late sleeps. Before I see them once again.