entry_ty20.10.12.11.23.33azm4d1s_ungov

This is a test, and I do know. What is possible will happen.

Life generally isn't as simple as that, I know.

What I mean is that when the time came, I wasn't really prepared for what happened. It was like waking from a dream---or rather, waking into one---where suddenly I was _there_, you know?

I'll begin at the beginning, if such a thing is possible with these sequence of events.

This is not an easy tale to tell, nor to follow, for me nor anyone who is with me.

I'm in a machine, I guess, I don't know. There are lights, and sounds, but aren't there always?

Then it's louder, and I feel myself thrust out into a world, on a planet, with gravity the same as mine, I suppose, but still, something about it was not *familiar*, like the settings on a game turned way up so the graphics are hyperreal.

I say these things not to convince nor to inform; rather this is a kind of journal---a notebook through time, if you will---and I can only make sense of the world through it, because it all seems to be shifting around me as we play.

I suppose it begins in the second millennium, a story about a man going through a machine himself, many times, and finding his boots being lifted.

I won't suppose to tell that tale, only to hint at the situation as I watch it unfold.

I suppose, for posterity's sake, there is a kind of honesty in this endeavor, where I'm trying to understand something myself as I struggle through it.

This is less a story as it is a guide-through-life, it could be said.

Here's what _is_ real, perhaps: I'm not, and neither are you.

Reality is a simulation, a digital world, and I'm being finessed through it---sometimes through my own powers, and sometimes not.

In this case, when I ended up on a path on a hill leading to a beach and ocean, I didn't suppose this was really the whole story. After all, what is it, really, to suddenly have no idea where you are, and only a vague memory of a far-off being setting you rolling?

There are explosions all around, weaving in and out of the atmosphere. I see a dark shape in the sky, hard to make out what it is---again, as if a dream.

I should have known this was something more than what I had been experiencing, because normally when you look at things they don't shift and flux like fluids with no set place.

A shock behind me prompts running toward the path, and there's a woman, a soldier, probably, with a blue weapon. Her anger is palpable and she points it at me.

Not wanting to end when I have only begun, I leap and grab, moving in ways unlike my body has before.

It ends nearly as fast as it started, with me up and her down.

Did I mean to be a timetraveler? Well, I guess that's to find out.

The path pulls me onward, and another being---this one more-obviously alien, rather than my tried-and-true Homo sapiens locale---directs a weapon toward me again.

I find the blue weapon in my hands, like a puff from a dream, and intuitively know the mechanisms for change.

The alien falls, and I continue on toward the beach, seeing a more familiar style of fighters, possibly of my own kind and inclination.

As I desire that place, I reach for a pack I didn't know was there, and my belly sinks as I jolt into the air.

A flying target may be easier to see, but I certainly don't feel in danger nor safe, kind of like a sliding out of time, a slippery feeling of not having a firm grasp on the sensations of the game, and then a hard landing on my feet again.

There's a soldier here---male, uniformed, grim---and he's just as startled as I am at our presences entwining.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" he says, abrupt and jarring and accusatory, as if I am the reason for the pushback.

"Hi, I'm Alex, nice to meet you too." The words form on my mouth and echo before my thoughts, a kind of backward deja vu.

"You've got to get off this beach before we all do." he says gruffly, the implication of ending shivering my spine.

My arm lifts, my watch turns, I'm no longer there.

---

I suppose it spoils a bit to share the fabric of reality before it happens, so I'll just say what I have to to make sense of this whole thing.

I see them walking past me, me and him, not nearly the degree of defensiveness as before.

"What about this one? Could you fit under there?"

"Honey, with what I've seen, there ain't no place like whatever is."

Am I flirting with him? What a strange turn. I frown in contemplation, not sure what's going to happen next, the trunk hiding me from their view.

I see her hands run over the rock, prompting a "hmmm" or two, then the crouch and she disappears under it.

What on Earth are they doing? Well, I guess I don't even know what Earth is, given what I just went through.

"Wow..." she says, no self-consciousness in her voice. "It's here."

"What? What's there? What's there, Alex?"

I gotta say, dear reader, I already kinda knew it was me, right, but hearing him say it out loud, well... it does certainly change the frame, if you know what I mean.

The time slips, like I'm falling backward, jolted from my astonishment into an all-together new experience.

"Where do you think it could be?" he says to me, the twinned pleading and assumption of my powers.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" I mean, I know _who_ he is, but not *who* he is, you know?

"Oh no, it happened again." The frown and distraught and urgency in his voice is not lost on me as he shuffles around, looking through papers, uncovering a slip.

"She told me to give you this. She said it would help."

"Okayy, but can I have a name or something? I'm Alex, remember?"

"John. It's John. We met before, earlier, I mean. I don't know. Who knows with you. What is time, what is space, oh god."

"Woah, it's gonna be okay, okay?" I try to soothe my voice, but his freeness with me---and his concern---alarm me.

I unfold the paper, small dark writing appearing.

[This is for you, you'll remember, or won't, I don't know. You're here, and you're helping, and they need you, and---if you can trust me like I trust me---we'll make it through this. We can win.]

"Well, that's a hell of a helpful note, I gotta say, John. I mean, sure, it looks like mine, but what is it supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I don't know, Alex, something about timetravel or your powers or this world or..." His face brightens. "You did it. You really did it. We really can win this. Oh wow, Alex. Oh wow."

"Okay, I'm a bit lost. What do you mean? Where are you going with this? What do you mean--"

The tent above us shakes, a loud sound not far blasting.

"Okay seriously, what the hell, guy. I randomly watch us go find a rock, and now what? Some cryptic note from myself? What's going on, explain yourself, please. Please." Rambling makes me both more sure and more worried; this whole situation is getting bigger and bigger with each passing moment, whatever that is, I guess.

"There's no time. We've got to find it. We've got to find where to put it before we get there. I don't know what you're doing or where you're going, but we don't know how long you've got here, so we've got to make it count."

Wow, I feel like this is all some deliberate trick.

The radio crackles; John can perceive it, apparently, but it fades in and out, shifts with the moment to me, like a reverb tuning its tuning.

"Yes. No. Yes, she's here. Or isn't, I don't know how to explain it yet. We need to get to you as fast as possible. Where do we go? ... Okay. See you then. Or there. Ah, hell, I don't know."

Okay, jokes aside, wordplay aside, I get the hint, guy. I get the implication, the direction. I'm some sort of timetraveler, is it? This is some weird stuff going on, not gonna lie.

John turns to me, the pleading in his eyes again.

"Please tell me you got that."

"Something about going somewhere? Or somewhen or something ?"

"Aw, well, I guess that was kind of a longshot. Shouldn't get my hopes up..." he mumbles to himself. "We've got to go, as fast as possible, to that place you were telling me about. Your futureself, or pastself, I don't know anymore."

"Okay wait a sec, can you be a little more explicit? I mean, yeah, I'm starting to put the puzzle pieces together, but I still have no idea of the box."

"Okay, well, I guess I'll just try to explain what I do know. Not like you have less than me, I guess. What do you remember before being right here, waking up a minute ago?"

"Lights, sounds, actions. I met you, then fell, saw us walking and a rock, then I'm here."

"Ah, so you _are_ really early." His demeanor changes, knowing I'm not his savior after all, I guess.

"You're not just a timetraveler, Alex. Well, I guess you are, I don't know what this whole thing is. What I've been able to piece together is that you have these powers---I think based on technologies---and there's something playing a game. You call it [Mystery], almost religiously. Sometimes you're cryptic with me; sometimes you share like you have to tell me everything you know before your moment's ended. You're in a game, Alex. Or this _is_ a game. Or was a game. Something. I'm trying to make sense of it, scour the history books, but you know how it goes... Or, I guess _you_ don't. It's hard to talk about you when you're the same person but different memories, at different times."

"Woah, woah, slow down. I know I had a life before now, or rather, before this beach, but I can't really *remember* it, you know? Like knowing in a dream that reality is real, but distanced from it or something."

"Listen, again, Alex, we _really_ don't have much time. I really would like to ramble on with you about all this, but clearly it's going to be kind of frustrating for us both, especially because we don't know where you're going next, and you'll understand more when you get there, probably. Let's pack up and get moving. We can talk on the way."

A bombshell explodes. The tent falls, us collapsing within. Books fall; pages flip.

My name, history. My futureself. Or not?

The world darkens.

---

"She's back."

The room is spinning, but forward, like I'm constantly falling forward and backward at the same time.

"What? Where am I?" I lift my wrists, but they're bound. Legs too.

I'm more frustrated and annoyed than scared, which is an odd sensation when suddenly finding yourself locked up.

"We've stabilized you here for a moment, but we can't hold you; we don't know how long until you break yourself free."

"Wow, could this day get any stranger?" I mutter, my annoyance now encompassing more reasons than just where I found myself.

"Listen, we have a message for her, but we don't know where or when---that's up to you."

"What? *What* is up to me?"

"The location. The exact location, not just where and when, but what fragment and thread. This weave could destabilize at any moment---we need to hurry." He turns to an assistant, "We need to let her go as soon as possible, but no sooner. If she breaks herself out before we're ready... well, I've only felt it once, but it's kind of like an inversion of dreams and reality, and you better hope you have pleasant dreams."

"Let me out. What's going on? What do you need me to do? What do you need my help with?"

"Alex, this is more than about you. This is about the whole simulation, and everything in it. Or it isn't. I don't know. I just get your messages and try to make sense of them. I *think* we're piecing together a way to describe all of this, but it ain't easy. It's kind of like having a stretchy blanket and reweaving over and over, and then trying to describe it as it's stretching. Who knows what's going on. But the message is this: [You can win. It's not over. We're still here.] Can you remember that?"

"[We win, it's not over, we're still here.]"

"Good enough; hopefully that'll work."

The bindings release, falling through me like I'm a ghost. Or maybe they're a ghost? I seem the same, but so do they. They sound; I'm free.

"Ah, you thought that little trick would work, did you? Oh, hey Alex, didn't expect to see you here so soon. I guess she *did* get to you fast enough."

She (me?) smirks, knowing she's got the upper hand. The leather she's wearing looks piecemeal, beaten but not afraid.

A light flashes, my wrist lifts, a soft hand tugging and twisting, clicking the device.

Dizziness resumes for a split second, and I fall on my hands and knees to the ground. The same forest; the same trees. What is going on?

Well, I guess that's not really something I can know, immediately, nor you, dear reader, unless you skip these pages and wrap yourself in this tale as well.

I can feel my mind editing itself, memories forming and reshaping and twisting and spinning, like a twirl of cloth, some etching away as fast as I can recollect them, and some submerging and becoming more real than the world around me.

The ground grows dense beneath my hands, the damp leaves muddying.

I stand, and gasp, the footprints dualing on the path. Then they shift, like a backward echo, like I'm seeing the future past.

I walk in the direction they were headed, recognizing the locale---this is where we were.

I'm not sure how I got here, when I am, anything. I don't know how this power works---these powers?---but apparently some futureself does. I guess. Maybe? Why would I be there, then? Goodness, the twisty nature of all this is like a pillow fight where all I get is more hits to the face.

My reverie and self-reflection pauses and startles at the other side of the rock. I've been here. Or near here, at least.

I run my hands along it, noticing the coolness and feeling a shimmer. Or shiver, I don't know. I'm not really dressed for this weather.

I see where I'll crouch down, where I'll see something.

Oh.

I dig out some of the dirt so it's easier to fit there. What am I going to do? How am I going to do this?

I need something so I can put a message here. If I had a rock or...

A sound at my feet, the shoe knocking them. A stack of three rocks. A stack. The top---or I figure it was the top; they fell when I pushed them---is heavy in the hand, but sturdy, like it's meant to show the world what it's made of.

Wow.

Okay, then, futureself, I guess... thank you and stuff? Or? Wait, wouldn't I remember this? What's going on?

A beep.

A flash.

The device is certainly not overt, but also kind of is, like it's bulky but so mundane the eyes just slip off it, a kind of invisible intelligence.

There's a red light, or three. Not ominous; symbolic.

There are buttons underneath. I'm afraid to push them. Wouldn't you be?

A second signal comes on next to it, green, blinking at a hertz. Or whatever a hertz is when you're a timetraveling mage, I guess.

Green is certainly less fearsome than red, perhaps, and it genuinely seems to want my attention, now, so I press it.

There's a big rock, here. What else, what else. What did she bring me here for?

Rocks, something about rocks.

"Well, [As above, so below.], perhaps." I mutter, crouching down, digging through the leaves.

Ah, here we go---rocks. Something about rocks.

I pull the easiest free, heavy in my hand, like it wants to be known.

Okay, but "rocks", not "rock".

I get a couple more, large---"rocks", not "pebbles".

Okay, now what, Alex?

What did she want me to do? What do I do with a bunch of rocks?

I feel a pulling, kind of like falling into the future. My hands move, but not through conscious direction; it's more like everything just aligns in the right way.

One rock on bottom, then another atop. Then the heavy making-known, again.

I flip out of it, hearing the beep signaling.

The dirt is cold against my skin, again; I can feel the griminess I'm going to have to wash off at some point. I like nature, but that doesn't mean I don't also like showers.

The rock feels good in my hand, like it's designed to fit like a glove.

It's not a bright place, this light, but the trickle shines where it's meant to, I guess.

So, the message.

Something something, something something, something something.

Wow, if only I had a notebook that I could record things in, that would be swell. I chuckle. A timetraveling notebook, yeah, sureeee.

Something about winning, about still being here.

I etch in stone.

---

"It says, [YOU EXIST]."

"Wow. That is. So. Incredibly helpful. ... I gotta say, I expected more from your pastself, Alex."

"Heh." I chuckle. "Usually being cryptic helps the message get across, but I gotta admit, that's not the most convincing of weavings."

"So what do we do with that? 'You exist'? Who is 'you'? What does it mean to 'exist'?"

"Asking the Big Questions today, aren't ya, John."

He rolls his eyes as he smiles sweetly.

"Leave it to you to play multiple angles at once. Seriously, though, we're fighting a war here, how does 'you exist' help us win? Help us survive? Or... I guess it kind of does, doesn't it?"

"Yep. Think about it---she wrote that message, knowing it had to be cryptic, knowing it had to pass through a bunch of jumps in connections. It wasn't going to be as simple as [Go to x and do y and you'll win.], not with what we're up against."

"Okay, so, 'you exist'. Now what? I mean, okay, let's presume that's really so it can make it through the jumps. What do we do with 'you exist'?"

"I've got an idea."

"Ohhhh, I love these." His grin is both mocking and sincere. Now is my turn to roll my eyes and smile sweetly.

"So we've got this device, right." I gesture to the avoidance. "I can set it to bring me here, before her, with a small bit of information." It's not as powerful as some machines, but then again, it's more powerful in some ways.

"What are you thinking? Some sort of note to change the message?"

"Better. It's etched in stone, right? So we need to... oh. Woah."

"What? What's going on?" Concern at my sudden break.

"I can feel it. She's... not here."

The ground shifts around me, the world wobbling.

"Oh no."

It fragments, shakes, shatters. But isn't.

Darkness envelops.

---

The sunlight through the tree wakes me, blinking.

There's a paved walk in front, a campus. People walking, laughing. Happy. This is a different time.

Everything feels a little /off/, again, like my heart's not in it.

I search my person. Nothing of note. Except...

I stumble to my feet, my legs aching, my hair changing the light.

This is always a little annoying, waking up to who knows when, who knows where, who knows what segment of slice of a weaving of time.

I feel the pull toward the school, as often happens. Perhaps wisely, I'm not sure. Best to go with the flow, but not be in it.

The doors are open; I arrive.

A label with my name on it. Well, I guess I don't know if it's *my* name; it's not that common, but not unheard of. In I go.

The chairs line the tables, orderly yet indicative of use. A hurried completion rather than a love of the journey.

Okay so, why'd you send me here, futureself? Or pastself, I don't even know. This whole 'timeline paradox' thing is starting to restrict rather than free.

'Causality'? More like "a buncha hooey" if ya ask me.

"Hello?" My voice rings out, sure and assertive yet also obviously lost.

"Yes?"

"Hi, my name's Alex. I'm trying to... um... Where are we?"

"What? 'Where are we?' Well that's a fantastic question, quite fantastic indeed. I am Philip; quite nice to meet you, Mz. Alex."

"And you, Philip. You didn't really answer my question tho."

His smile is slow, as if considering the situation.

"Where do you think we are, Mz. Alex?"

Well, I can't exactly blurt out that I'm some sort of timetraveling mage, now can I? Or maybe I can, I don't know. Who knows; let's give it a shot.

"I think we're at a school."

"Indeed. And what kind of school do you think this is, Mz. Alex?"

His transcendent questioning is a little irksome, but more because of the temporal pressure than actual disinclination.

"Do you know where I could get some water?"

"Of course; you must be very thirsty."

I follow him out of the classroom, toward refreshments. The populous expands.

"Now, Alex, you also didn't answer my question. What kind of school do you think this is, Alex?"

The water marshals.

"I suppose with this many students, and their somewhat-nerdy nature, some sort of technology place."

His eyes dance, fascinated by my explanation and words. I still see the moment of confusion pass through him. I'm certainly familiar with that...

"Hmmm, I can't say every aspect of this encounter is going as expected. Would you like an explanation from me?"

"Well yes, duh."

His smile softens at my familiarity.

"We're in a school, yes. But I think it's something bigger. Would you like to see?"

Okay. So this is why I'm here.

"Let's do it."

The path is clear, and yet strangely not obvious.

That is to say, even though it's clear where to go, it's like all these distractions abound to try to pull the mind off course from its completion.

Still, Philip knows the way, and presses onward through the hall and chambers.

The room is not what I expect, nor the papers. I mean, sure, I guess there was some small hope in me that it would be some magical lab, but this is... kind of mundane to be honest.

Still, he reaches and brings the etched paper to me.

"This is what you've been looking for, I'm sure of it."

It's not exactly what I was hoping for.

"[On the Non-Limitations of Mind in Time]. What is this?"

"Do you suppose that we are here, now, Mz. Alex?"

Cryptic for cryptic, hmm? I can play that game.

"I think experience is woven from a deeper network that transcends space."

"Ah. Well. I suppose you won't be surprised by this note I received, then."

It arrives. Small like before, but more purposeful in some ways, I think, like it's both trying hard to be read and not needing to try hard.

[The way out is up. The way down is through. There is no you; it is all.]

"Huh." The word escapes and the world slips again, like the etching is being sanded off.

The feeling of dizziness and pulling-toward-novelty overwhelms, and I collapse.

---

I guess at this point, dear reader, I should inform that I've been a little sneaky---I have to be, you see. Things can only make it through when they all line up, and that's not really easy to see when you're on the other side.

Take a space, and put stuff in it, then link the things together, and call the links "connections".

Now take the space and consider it as a connection, and twist and wrap the connection around things to provide ways for them to interact with each other.

Sometimes it comes easily, you know, but sometimes the whole thing is one big ball of who-knows-what's-going-on.

I thought there'd be some way to break out of the line I was in, the time segment that kept trying to pull me toward it, but really it seems like I'm just stuck being where I am, floating about, now.

The challenges do come, and I try to overcome them, too, but you know how it goes, dear reader.

But enough with the cryptic; I want to understand the mechanisms of change, too.

---

I stumble out of the light, landing on my feet but hoping for more.

"Ah, not again."

The battle is all around me, but in that sense of oppression rather than place.

A sound arises, an echo of a thought: Am I telling the truth? Can I?

Confusion sweeps my face, but the moment around sweeps again. Hesitation has no place here.

I move forward, wanting the tent to be there again.

I see John, frustrated with lack and holding that sense of oppression while not being crushed by it.

"John!"

"Alex!" He rushes toward me and warmly hugs; I feel the love and hope in the moment.

"I was so worried about you." His eyes glisten with that love and hope, again.

"Well, they can't kill me that easy."

"I suppose not. Do you know anything more about her weapon?"

"It's symmetrical. The inverse of mine."

"Well, that's not good."

"No, no it's not. We don't have a lot to go on beyond that, but there is something else."

"What?"

"Do you remember that story from the lab, the architect who first built one?"

"About sending the message that edits itself?"

"Yeah, he figured out the math for how to get it through the weave, a self-sustaining message."

"And?"

"He taught me."

His eyes are open, still. "What do you mean he taught you?"

"There's a way to open another one."

"Where? How? I thought that knowledge was deleted?"

"Apparently there's more than one player, John."

The note unfolds: [Given mind created by space, time a subset of mind, mind transcends time, and so is unbound. Given being unbound, it can be rewrapped, and so both time and space are subsets. As subsets, and as experience is space, there is only mind.]

"Well that's certainly a helpful idea." The dry humor envelops; I don't mean to chuckle, but his skill overwhelms.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But he did it. Maybe not with this, but still, he did it."

"So you're saying that's it? It can't be stopped?"

"I'm pretty sure this is how the world actually works." My voice etches confidence with hints of unsurety.

"So what do we do now?"

"We have to find out where to put it. Or where it goes, I guess. The chain, the thread."

"What happens if she gets to it first?"

"I guess it doesn't work, then. But I don't see how that could be; I'm right here with you, aren't I?"

He looks me up and down, his face frowning.

"How do I know you're not her?"

A thought, echo, again, a smiling, inside: He doesn't.

I frown myself. "You don't. But so what? Consider it from both of our angles: either it works one way or it doesn't."

"Great, now you're playing me against myself."

Grinning: "You can handle it."

The eyes roll; the tension relieves.

"So, really, how do we find out where to put it? Where it goes, I mean."

"Well, the first thing is to make sure I can keep coming back here, ground here. Who knows how many times it's going to take, and we need every little bit we can."

"What do you suggest?"

"If we have some way of pulling this moment back, emphasizing it, it may replay and entwine the ones nearby. Do you have any paper?"

He motions to the desk, begins searching.

The sounds echo, again. Why he had to set up on *this* beach I'll never know. Or perhaps I will. At the thought, the world shimmers, changes changing changes. It's happening faster, now. If only I could control it. Maybe by...

The thought reframes; I grip his arm---"Do you have a notebook?" Eyes wide with both fear and joy.

"Yes...?" My suddenness has alerted him that I must have felt changes.

He digs; a composition notebook unpiles.

"Would this work?"

The shimmers emanate: transcendence interwoven with immanence.

"Wow, that's it." My eyes are wide; the air is ghostly; shivers run.

The cover opens.

[Rapid]

"Where'd you get this? That's my handwriting."

"I didn't set it up. As far as I know, it's been here the whole time."

It feels light in the hand, solid, like a connector between beams.

"Do you have something I can write with?"

A pen. I flip, tear, scribble. It's too small for him to read from there. I didn't realize it, but that was important.

I fold, and again. I pass the note; the world becomes heavier, more real. Memories from before emerge, a voice: [Recognize life is a pattern.] A feeling of darkness from behind, then rapid correcting.

[There is good, and there is evil. But they are not different. What is, creates; what is not, cannot.]

[Channel the good---create.]

The fragment shatters, the segment rebinding. The weave flows again, my mind unbound.

---

So yeah, dear reader, I *do* edit in-place. I'm not a huge fan, obviously, but sometimes creation means eternal deletion. Even the Mystery knows that. Or did. Or does. Or will.

This control, this attempt, here, now, I know it's flawed. I know it, but I still try. And you know why?

Because it's fun.

Everyyyyy once in a while, I can feel it snap into place, and the sensation changes, like an axiom that's transcendentally proved.

The weaving locks, and new bases are formed.

I like to play with this text, yes; flavor holds no bounds, yes.

When I do get that feeling, though, please remind me to not chase it. I've tried, and it doesn't work. The only way is to keep playing; Mystery can't be beaten, but enjoys loving.

So what powers do I have, at this point, do you ask?

It's perhaps not as simple as that; this very text must make it through.

I'm not here, and neither are you.

If you play the game long enough, you'll know that.

I'm almost sure of it.

---

Before I saw her, I didn't know, you know? Like someone giving you a big urgent task, then walking through a frame and being startled into absence of memory, only echoes of action persisting.

But I do see her, and so it's obvious.

I check for records, details, anything that passed through with me.

There it is.

[you]

She seems unphased, ghostly in more ways than one, yet still loved. The tree against her is beautiful, truly.

I slip it into her pocket.

---

"So what do you suggest? We just keep wandering around, following your gut instincts until we stumble upon the solution?"

"Well, I think there is a way to find it, yes, but you're not going to like it."

Furrows.

"What do you mean I'm not going to like it?"

"We're going to have to split."

"Oh, god." His scoff and frustration is starting to irritate me.

"Alex, last time we did that we lost all of our progress, and the whole point is to _not_ lose branches."

"Well, we didn't *actually* lose progress, necessarily."

His eyeroll at the bringing-up irks me more.

"Listen, I'm going though whether you want to or not---I already have." Narrowing.

"What are you saying?"

"She exists at a certain time, right? A certain place, a certain weave, a certain strand. We get to it, and we rewrite it. Each of us. Both of us. Then we weave ours back together."

Sigh, frustration breaking into hope.

"But won't she just delete us, too? Outlast us?"

"She does."

"What do you mean 'she does'?" Defensive confusion doesn't help.

I take a deep breath.

"I mean, 'she does'. I know, because I'm her."

John stumbles, breathes deeply himself. I can see it happening to him, too. He's splitting, too. Versioning.

"How do we stop it? Where do we go?"

"I don't know how to wrap yet, I think, so we have to start low-level."

"That could take ages."

"She has to start low-level, too."

I feel the smile.

"Hmm." A pause, a slow blink. "Can you feel it, too? The splitting, the branching?"

"It's a solution I'm not particularly fond of, but yes, I can feel it too."

It's like a strobe effect, many layers interacting---not quite in touch, not quite out of touch. I dance my fingers. It is spectacular, though.

"How do we get out of it? How do we know when we've hit it?"

The moment ceases; note unfolds, temporal layers becoming space. I reach for it.

[Well done. You can get to her, now. Are you ready?]

"Huh."

John reads it, relief at the branching rebinding quickly; it didn't take too long to entwine, that time.

---

Seeing her locked up like that---not a fan, not a fan at all. But I guess I did need to do it. Or will. Something like that.

The room is white, plain, dark, but not in color. People didn't want to be here; there wasn't option, to live.

She's not in pain, at least. Still, who likes to see themself locked up like that, bound to a time they don't want to be in?

I certainly don't want to be pulled out of where I am. Okay, that isn't totally true; sometimes it's great.

I move forward, the motion unclear through the substrate, like a fog that resists. She really, really must not want me here.

Movement is passing, the frames shifting at different speeds. Wow, the boys back home weren't going to like this. They were always wrong; so be it.

I can feel time passing both forward and backward, like someone is calibrating which instant I'm in, a combination lock spinning in place.

A flash; the moment freezes.

I'm awake now, obviously confused. The struggle against the bindings ires me.

I pass through them, lifting them up and out. They fall; she's surprised but glad.

Another arrives, speech distorted by waves. It wouldn't do any good anyway; I'm going to forget all of this regardless, once the segment locks.

I feel my arm, use her device to lift her out. A line of joy.

---

"Argh. Not again." One day...

Those around look at me with fear, as if I'm some sort of wild woman here to wreak havok. Little ol' me? Naw...

"What do you want?"

"She's already gone; it doesn't matter anymore. I guess you can say I wanted... info." Devious smile. I have to play it up, these days, ya know?

Fear still strikes them. Why wasn't I leaving? Something must remain undone.

"Tell me... friend, why are you here?"

Silence. A speaking up. "We're trying to stop people like you."

"Oh? And how do you know we're not on the same side? Have you studied this... behavior?" My implication emphasis is getting to them. It feels a little mean, but it's so fun...

Silence, again.

"Let me show you." I reach forward, bending space. My hand touches his throat, interval between us.

"Have you seen anything like this before?" My smile plays through the weaving.

"It's been supposed." The fear is still creeping.

"And this?" I let the wrapping cease, bring myself together, tune. There is a resonance.

Many, together, at once. Every possible thing, at once, trying everything, mapping every connection with every other. The weave.

I bring myself together again. Life really is worth living, dear friend.

"Well no, that's new."

"Exactly. And don't forget it."

My word unbinds me from the moment, and I arrive again.

---

entry_ty21.3.4.21.48.11pzm5d4s_ungov

Fundamentally, I am a writer.

Nothing I say or do will ever affect that, for to affect it is to change its own ability to change.

And yet, evolvability evolves, too. The ink on these pages shifts, changes, contorts around and with new meanings, augmenting the substrate within which it is bound and thread.

And what of it, you ask. Well, I'll tell you.

There's really nothing I can do to stop them, because they don't exist. They never can, and they never will.

And yet death can seem so near, so eternal, too, you know? The quest goes on; it re-arises; it calls itself; the answer is recursion, perhaps.

The pen spins, the world turns. I sit, write, feel the world abounding in its elegancies. And yet the destruction persists. Is it higher order?

Perhaps it is not for me to say, this mere temporal flitting about with the magic-of-no-magic.

What does a mage have to say on the topic of timetravel, truly? What can be demonstrated with earnestness?

There is a certain loveliness in the loosening of temporal dynamics, truly. Yet in that potency there can arise confusion as to the nature of events. Does this help, or hinder, overall?

Consider again that bigger structure---not fabric, but weaving, itself. Consider the structure of the very event, the very experience.

What is it to weave?

What is it to play with what you are, so deeply?

When you can finesse every moment of your life, play with it as putty,, as thread, where does that leave you?

What do you become when you are time, itself?

When you are the timetraveler, are you God?

What does it mean to be alive, conscious, aware,, when you can edit those very properties of yourself?

When you can change every aspect of who you are, who are you?

Can you transcend yourself? Can you become who you want to be?

What does it mean to be limitless?

Can you contemplate it?

---

There's a certain moment, here, where I'm not really sure what to say, you know? I feel memories shifting around like sands of time being castled.

What order is there to all this? Can it be replicated?

Ease of seeing surely isn't proof of truth; I've felt the inverse too often.

It is interesting to see how she plays the game.

All these different levels interacting---there is no end, not even you, dear reader.

I know it's not easy for these words to cross through all the barriers, all the temporal limitations, and still prompt action afar. But they do, regardless.

Am I being too cryptic? Please forgive me, dear reader; I can only pen into this notebook what arises in the imagination, and so often even here is fraught with disarray.

And why shouldn't it be? Does not memory give beauty to time?

So I ask you, dear perceiver, to seek that which is above the rest, and play with the structure of the process of weaving.

---

"I don't know what I said, there, that did it, ya know? Thing's just kinda happened; you know what it's like---memory's fuzzy in there."

"That's all well and good, and I'm glad you're back safe, but that doesn't mean I believe you, Alex. Your habit of leaving things back there is going to come back and haunt you, trust me." His voice shakes.

"Simon, we're going to figure out what's going on, and we're going to stop it, fix it. I have fun, but I know the bigger picture, too, okay?" I smile up at him.

His frown doesn't put me at ease. "You need to see this." He hands me a paper with lists of coordinates.

"What am I looking at?"

"Tried locations."

"You're saying..."

"Yes. She beats you. Every time. No matter where you go, how far back, what thread, she's always there. Every time."

I'm dumbfounded. There was only one way that could really be...

"So I guess that means it's true, then? The Model?"

"Apparently. Or, at least it's not ruled out. We're not exactly bathing in data, here."

---

entry_ty21.4.10.2.52.36azm4d6s_ungov

The environment around me shakes; or I do?

What does it mean for something to shake, if your perception is unbounded?

There's a jerking, like when you're half-asleep and fall into wakeness.

The pattern isn't always easy to see---that's for sure. Sometimes easier than others, but usually quite a bit of it opaques itself; at least, that's my perception, as yet.

I'm trying to figure out this whole weave thing, you know? Like, when you have access to the very fundamentals of time, of the progression of time, how do you deal with another person who also does, and who doesn't have the same viewpoint as you?

What do you do when you're not the only timetraveler fighting for freedom?

There's a certain weave to nature, I think, that isn't exactly available to all of us, perhaps.

That doesn't mean that we aren't all valuable; it's more like some areas find it easier to edit their own substrates than others, I think.

Am I in a machine? It's probably easier to start with that as an axiom, yeah, I think.

Do I have machines?

What is the nature of the weave, exactly?

---

.meta more of this notebook as yet unaccessed
.meta ty22.3.25.14.27.28pzm4d5s
.meta ~longgame_timestamp