Sensibilium Blog

I scanned the data stream mercilessly, searching for the anomalies that would appear inevitably. My eyes pealed wide moving furiously over the screens 20 scans per second 1200 scans per minute, 72000 scans per hour 576000 scans per shift the data stream slipped by into the voids beyond my screen. Data stream heaven perhaps. I didn't know. I didn't care. This is where I was focused. Focus is faith. Faith is the dream. The dream is real and someday we will all be out of this mess and back to where we came from.
That's what the supervisor says anyway. I think she's lying.
My screen goes blank and I know my shift is done. I wash my eyes and walk away to join the line in the hall back to where they keep us when our time is up, until they need us again. We have replacements for when we sleep. But I don't sleep. Gargamel eats us five at time in great heaps and fits and I complacently take my turn to ride down his gullet and into his belly. How curious it might be to consider it otherwise, but I'm not curious. Curiosity killed the cat they keep as a trophy over the exits.
Who would want to go outside anyway with everything we have inside here?
My bunkmate is unimpressed by my story about the 3 anomalies in the same line of code I found today. So I grab a plate of tofu and cheese and bunk down to stare at the glow coming out of the ceiling panels for 8 before free time. Reverse and revise. “free” time. Running down treadmills for capacitor storage. I'm told there's a joke in there somewhere. From before.
Before what I don't know, and am told by others that I shouldn't care. Who knows? I don't. The sun is making it's way across the panels now and there's no guarantee it'll stop mid stride to say hello.
So I make my way to the end of the line and wait. What am I waiting for? There's a turnstile at the front which leads back to the apartments. The two in front of me are talking about the children. Where do they go? Don't they remember? Probably safer not to. I forget and stay put. The schedule is on time, the trains are not.
Days fly by. No sleep. I wonder what it was for anyway. Then I remember the dangers therein and stop wondering. Dreams are the enemy. Except for the One dream. Anything else is heresy. The white is peeling itself from the woodwork and dancing the fandango across the glow tiles. White on white. How can I see that? Must be different hues. Must be my imagination. What a terrible thing. Who equipped me with this incongruous apparatus? I should file a complaint. Or maybe I shouldn't. A
bunkmate of the guy who stands in front of me... she filed a complaint. They took it seriously. Where is she now? I don't know. I don't want to know. This is important. Too much data can lead to corruption.
Information overflow and panic. System errors and catastrophic emergency shutdown. That's what happened. Have faith. Have faith. I scrub my eyes and stand in line. The data stream awaits.
Numbers, letters, abstract values represented by arcane symbols flow by. Right to left, bottom to top. I'm staying focused, watching for errors. For 8 hours. Waiting for the correct symptoms of incorrect utilisation of the wave form properties which have potential for synergetic values resulting in mass wave function collapse. I have no idea what this means. The light blinks which I ignore, followed by pressure on my shoulder. The supervisor is telling me I can go home now. If I try to leave sooner they
will let the dogs out to drag me back. Permission is vital.
Get on the bus and greet the operator with a blank stare. I don't look at the ticket as it falls into the chute. Where does it go? What do they do with it? If someone knows they aren't telling me, that’s for sure. I'm fine with that. Data corruption is widespread and malignant at this stage of the process.
Less is better according to the ads. The bus is crowded and I am forced to stand. Not that I mind too much. When it's like this it's like a massage parlour on the cheap. I turn the key and walk in. My bunk mate lays into me with verbal fury. Where have I been don't I know the world is ending why am I not there who cares about the job. I don't care. It's just what I am supposed to do I guess...
I bury my face in the television. The man inside is telling me about the properties of the wave which will collapse all the potential events of this plane. It sounds interesting but I am really listening to the electricity flowing with the conduits, the capacitors and the vacuum tubes. They don't make television sets like this anymore, or at least that's the impression I get from somewhere deep in my mind. I accept this as fact and ignore the gnome stealing my potatoes from the bottom cupboard. They
may not be my potatoes, but the attachment remains in place. I didn’t get here by making claims on property. She throws some money and a scrap of paper, and points at the door. Who is she and why is she doing this? I nod agreement and make my legs move. Drawn by unknown forces I find myself in a bodega two streets down and a block up. Everything on the list is here, except for the pre-moistened moist towelettes. Seems like such a shame. The small old lady who looks like she is crawling backwards from the end of her days wraps it all up in brown paper and sends me on my way with a thank you. I nod agreement and in no time find myself back. She tells me she is meeting something named Ron tonight and to make myself scarce. This means she wants me outside of my apartment before she gets back.
I walk around in circles. Great arcs describe along straight edged streets. I lied they aren't circles. I look at the ceiling covered in stars. Sometimes one or another star blinks out. Sometimes the star turns back on. Sometimes it does not. Then I walk directly into something. I stop step back and see it is her. It is her. It is the girl that I don't dream about anymore. What is she doing here? I look at her blankly.