It's the goddamn arthritis that holds me back. My fingertips feel frost bitten from years of pounding on all these keys. The screen is ice. I'm getting through. It's working for me and I thought I'd die before having a hand in the great change. All my eighty six years on this planet, and here I am still punching in strings of code at the rate faster than any punk sucker hack with holds on credit cards or social media sites. That ain't for me. Those puddles of waste collecting more dumb brained fools than any other worldly vices here on this planet. I keep my distance from online social media, it's the morals and vintage integrity in me.
I watch them from the outskirts, like I'd always done my whole life. I'm always doing much more meaningful stuff, like remove from office those that doesn't belong. I take out satellites and watch them come crashing down to earth like meteors just as news teams cover it. Those leeches. I feed into the prompt what I dream, what I envision, or see in everyday waking life that no one can or refuses to see. It's like the tiny lint on the surface of your eye, it resembles blurred script--that's the code, the message. I have the right eye to focus and remember what it reads, and then the experience and the know-how to where to put it into play.
My old ass sits at the desk and translates the eye binary right here on my silver cased desktop. Old school gear with a post futuristic power. The kind of power kept from the people. Never taught, revealed, or sold in any tech shop underground or consumer markets. Where I get my electronics is none of your damn business!
So . . . Back to my send off masterpiece--since this will be my last recording to whomever it may concern.
I get through another black hole booby trap, a waste of art, waste of digital space. Through the countless back doors I surf like hellfire reused, through outdated wares and never before seen or touched highways, right to the central point of no return. My elderly fingers bruised, taped up, and quick like the shanks of a cultivator moving in mad fury at my dual text board invisible to any one but me, (custom made.)
This will change the world and it will be my legacy to leave behind for my kids and others of this otherwise grave doomed future. I'm taking down an empire. Bigger than an empire, a omnipotent source that breathes life into this machine we fuel by our blood and sweat. For too long it's driven us further away from each other and from reality, telling us that reality is tangible and a form to program and login to. No matter how far you reach inside your virtual headsets you'll never be able to physically touch the flower. But this 'thing', the big force, tells us to imagine and don't be afraid to explore new possibilities. It's a rabbit hole, and we've all been led into it. Including myself.
My screen blinks. There's someone else here. Like the others, try their hand at attempting to stop me from getting closer, but it's too late and they know it. It's Horse Inc. A company designed to send troops across the digital Web to seize old timers and other skilled Cowboys like myself. Here I am at the edge of the collapsing chrome wave inch in my way closer, and closer to the reinforced door to the whole shebang. I could sense it there in all it's splendor and hype.
"Herv?" It's my wife.
"There you are, here take your vitamins." She fiund me, and gives me a hand full of colorful pills. I take them for the energy, for vitality, for strength.
"Honey how much longer you gonna be in here I need to check my mail, you know Jackson just had his baby and I want to see the pictures. . ." She rambles on as I guide her out of my office.
"Okay, but that's why I made your touch screen for you, just plug it in and you can check your mail from there." She knows that my wall screen is much better. Plus she sees the images clearer when it's life size, and life-like when outputted to 3d. My office is built for multitasking, but I use it modestly and only just as soon as my job is done I'll be on my way. Until then I'm logged in for the ride.
Just as I sit back down into my easy chair, creme my hands with the pain ointment, and take one long breath, I begin bending my fingers in contortions no normal human could match. The tips of my numbed finger tap on the soft glowing plastic desktop like a impatient man in the waiting room expecting to here what STD he has this time. If it were piano keys under my hands I'd be playing Ludwig Van, better than Ludwig Van himself. It's a do or die mission here in my dim lit room, eyeing the screen and the lines furiously bleeding up the wall fading away into the ceiling. Lines of codework. A language only a small group of people know, including me and this bastard hot on my trail. I could lose him in nano-bits. I'm focused on the prize and it's there on the filthy golden horizon.
And just like that, I'm pass the main gate!
After getting through I make my way up to the front door, placing carefully bugged script, hiding it in dusty crevices and kinks in their surprisingly shitty vault secured property. I high tail out to a safe haven, quickly mop up my tracks, and finally. . . I unplug. The wall screen goes dark. I breathe once more and command the heavy window shades to open, theu split apart revealing the bright forest, the trees, the vines creeping along the glass like thin silk snakes. The blue sky so real. The sun peeking through the greens and brunette browns in shattered pieces and shapes. I tell the window to open. It rolls down through the floor sending off the oily vines and letting in a nice calm breeze carrying a scent you could never replicate and shouldn't ever want to. This is life. Finally I'm free, we're free! All my typing away to live another day once more.
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