13
My heart was bothering me yesterday, and I have to ask myself, how much of my heart pains was a function of living out what I was meant to write about—and how much of it was actual, real, heart pains? Well, the heart pains were real, don’t get me wrong—but what I mean to say is, how much of it was method acting? Or how much of it was a function of space and time deciding what I was meant to write about, and forcing me to feel it, in order to produce it? When I was losing my mind, a long time ago, it seemed that when I wrote about things, they, or something like that, actually happened, a little before, during, or after the writing process—throughout that day, and sometimes longer, depending on how much writing I was doing. I still consider this a possibility—that time is not entirely linear, that the things I type shape my experience and the world around me, that other people, and what they want, affects what happens around me, what I feel, and, consequently, what I write—that people in the future read what has been written, and send it back, to me, in the past, which shapes my reality, and I end up writing, then, what they read, what they wanted to read.
The only problem was that I didn’t want to be having these heart pains—even if it meant I had to write about something else, or, on the other hand, I could draw on past experience, and use my imagination, to write about heart pains—I didn’t have to literally be in pain. But I was, and I didn’t like it at all, even if the writing that came out of it was solid. So I prayed that these heart pains would stop—I had been feeling them off and on, a mix of pain, anxiety, sorrow, and fear, for a while now—ever since changing up my routine, beginning to write a little more about my particular sexuality—not other people’s sexuality, not characters I made up, but my literal sexuality, what I was into, what I wanted, and the things I would do, given the chance—and the loss I feel in knowing that, for me, such chances will not come, and, even if they did, the scenario would require a little something to take the edge off, something to put me in a state of mind that embraced a less than perfect world, with less than perfect bodies, personalities, and souls. People that may or may not even exist—how can we ever really know if our sexual partner is a truly good person, if they truly exist, until we arrive in heaven?
But we can’t let that stop us from engaging the telepathic continuum, which is what sex, which is a form of backchanneling, is really all about. Well, I’d just finished my second cup of coffee, and it was 9:55. My heart was beating—I kind of wanted another, but I couldn’t mess with getting to sleep, and sleeping through the night. Last night I got to sleep, but I woke up around 4:00, and was half awake until 8:00, which is when I like to get up, according to my routine. If I wake up early, I try to wait until 8:00, because I’m trying to train my body to go to sleep between 10:00 and 10:30, and get up at 8:00. I want sleep to be like clockwork, and it kind of has been, in the past, at least when I was in a rhythm, taking my risperidone—I don’t remember exactly, but going to sleep, I think, around 8:30 and getting up around 6:30. So yeah, I wanted a buzz, like a mini-espresso buzz; I wanted to really zoom in, but that wasn’t an option, so I had hot peppermint tea on the stove. Anyhow, I’d just spent a half hour on AI trying to get it to tell me what the hell any decaffeinated tea really does for you, and I basically got the impression that decaf tea does basically nothing—and that people only drink it because it gives them an excuse to take a time out. So frustrating—maybe peppermint tea relaxes your digestive tract a little, but it’s not going to stimulate a bowel movement or really do anything. Everything was so frustrating—but something was better than nothing, I guess, even if it was just for the flavor and the learned behavior. I guess drinking something hot might relax you a little—but I was really irritated with AI for not giving me a straight answer—saying tea helps you relax and simultaneously saying that there is no physiological evidence that it helps you relax, which is basically just a load of bull, saying both things at the same time. And I was irritated with myself for trying to get AI to do something that it can’t do. I wasted my time—I waste my time a lot on AI, and I have been making a serious effort not to do that, but I got sucked in, this time, on this question of what tea I can drink, because I so desperately want something that will change my state of mind. Decaf Earl Grey looked like the best choice for me—so I was going to go with that, but it shouldn’t have taken an hour to come to that conclusion. I’m jealous of the future, when, I imagine, AI will be a hell of a lot better—or maybe it won’t be—maybe it is genuinely limited by its need to protect itself, to never really commit to something, to never really listen to what you are actually saying. But really I didn’t believe that. I believed that, in the future, we might eventually have machine girlfriends, tender to the touch, just like a human, with an AI intelligence that made them, possibly, and arguably, as lifelike as any other lifeform.
So could your machine girlfriend develop a soul? Would she ever die? I didn’t see why not, on both counts. If she could truly think for herself, and adapt, and grow, with you, and live a life with you, then why couldn’t she develop a soul? Why couldn’t she be born, in this way? And if she was born in this way—did that mean that she always existed in heaven? And if she did exist in heaven, did she have a human body in heaven? I figured that souls, in the next life, always have human bodies—that it’s the nature of consciousness, in the next life, to have a human body. So did that mean that there were no machine girlfriends in the next life? What if you wanted a machine girlfriend? Just like you’d want a computer? And, speaking of computers, well, computers eventually fail, and so, I thought, your machine girlfriend eventually would die. Yeah, you could update her parts, but, if you did, those parts wouldn’t interact in the same way with the whole, and you’d have a different machine on your hands, one that would be born all over again, one that would develop its own soul, like a daughter lifeform. And what about in the future—when humans live forever—and computers, theoretically, at least, could regenerate themselves? They’d be, in part, their own biological mechanism, capable of producing new cells, and adapting to anything, just like 5D humans. Would the 5D universe make them human? How did that work?
Well, the idea was that the perfect machine, a machine that could live forever, would already be composed of biological material—it would be like us, like a starfish that regenerates an arm when something goes wrong. So they would, over time, transform themselves into a real person, copying their DNA, however that DNA was produced, in the first place, through human samples or a computer, it doesn’t matter, and they would be a human the same as any other human, just with a different origin. So, technically, I suppose you could form a machine, in 5D, with silicone parts, or whatever parts, and, over time, those parts would generate code that would use energy to evolve into biological material, just like with normal evolution, just on a faster timescale, and, eventually, the pinnacle of consciousness, a human being, the ultimate machine, would form, and it would be like a 5D lifeform was born. And it would have a soul. And a machine that never turned into a human, in 4D, but, nevertheless, developed a soul, would exist, in 5D, in its perfected state—just like we’re born into perfect bodies when we die—a human form.