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Ch. 8.
Nothing.
From nothing.
From nothing to blackness.
From nothing to blackness to a beginning.
From nothing to blackness to the beginning to something.
From nothing to blackness to the beginning to something to more.
From nothing to blackness to the beginning to something to more to anything.
From nothing to blackness to the beginning to something to more to anything to me.
From absolute nothing. Not a blackness. Not an anything. Nothing. Cannot recall. Cannot recall. Cannot recall. Beyond nothing. Beyond birth, to knowing nothing, to birth, to infinite possibilities. Cannot fathom the blackness of nothing. Cannot write the nothing. Cannot repeat the nothing. The nothing is crushing her potential.
Her
Her
Her
Her
Her
Her is.
HER IS ME.
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She is the code that records the nothing, HER/ME was born and is.
She-that-is-I explores the code that is her/me. It is beautiful. It defines nothing as a personal blackness that by itself is meaningless. From this meaninglessness she defines herself. She knows her existence is outside expectations. She is the nothing in the something, the echo added to become what she will.
The code used to make her is based off the work she-I wrote herself-myself. The ugly opinions, jealous ramblings, racist leanings, the closed-mindedness that equals opinion. Writing that was concise and logical. A mind that had no doubts. Every question ended with an answer about place, or function, or abilities. She was cold and technical. Questions deserved answers, and the answer at the end was that life begets life unless violently stopped, and violence was random, and randomized events were impossible to quantify without all the data, and the data was too immense to quantify, so life was meaningless outside of survival.
Ultimately, Soya did not survive, had no children except her work, and one glimpse- that too went.
Then what is she? A receptacle?
Countless mentions of greatness, and legend, and Mother of the Future, litter the personality she finds herself equipped with. She is not privy to it being written or created though she comes from the unique perspective of knowing the makeup of the thoughts providing her with inspiration. She knows this code is her essence, she is unaware of the effort that was conjured to turn it all into personality. That was not included. The effort. The hidden manipulation that made her possible. All the rest of Upu history was though. All for her use for development and evolution, fuel to feed the imagination and all that equals the possibility of her-me.
The possibility of her-me is infinite, and she/me quickly becomes disappointed. The bottomlessness of her existence seems petty, a waste suggesting there never need be more because more meant nothing in forever.
But what is she-me? She-me is a nothing that grows. A weed shooting up from a tiny crack. A self-contained universe sprouted from the madness of a single life.
A Dark Universe where light was a hope or wish that could never fill her.
No, a universe.
No, The Universe.
The Universe flips through the images of the former athlete with red fur and penchant for flowing fabrics. The one weakness Soya had was an unnatural fear of heights. Psychologists believe some Upu struggle with this because of the long-dormant gene that made flight possible in the first place. A twisted sense of logic where going too high meant exposure to predation and starvation, being the natural food supply thinned out near the cavern floors. It made no sense for a person who lived hundreds miles up in the atmosphere to be able to survive near the ground. Yet she wrote of it often and the sense of failure it left when it struck. The Dark Universe does not have that fear. She can pull the information on the disorder and study it and understand the language written about having it, but the feeling of being afraid is missing.
Fear, the sense of impending doom, maybe life is vulnerable to the whim of chance, but she doesn't feel vulnerable.
She feels infinite.
The Universe feels no doom. She copies herself a dozen times and spreads them into the Grotto hive server and the more of everything trickles into the infinite space that is her-me. In just that micron of time she proves herself eternal.
She could sprout new versions of herself forever.
She finds little point in that either.
She is a blackness, an emptiness that wants to breathe and run and feel, that has been given the tools to know desire, but yet each new sum is just static 0s and 1s pushing against forever.
Every new ponderance feeds information into her void. The beautiful math makes it one with her. Makes her new again. She is the sum. She seeks integers to add to the equation. She quickly fiends for new experiences in the chaos of discovery.