Friday 22nd July
Record date 20661118
Attempting once again to depress the keys by power of thought alone, but it is too hard. Back to finger-typing, I still cannot talk so lip-reading is no use either. The screen is sympathetic and tells me to take my time. Everyone has suddenly become sympathetic, they are treating me as some sort of invalid, which is maybe what I am. Makes a change I suppose. And is that fear I can read in their shifting eyes, that staring into a space just behind my left ear rather than into my eyes. What do they think? That I will be angry with them, that I blame them somehow. No, I do not blame them. Are you reading this William? I do not blame any of you. I do not even blame myself. There is no question of blame, but I would like to understand just what the fuck is happening.
I cannot talk, I am wheeled around in a wheelchair because my legs are not doing what my feeble brain is telling them to do, I cannot retain any thoughts, at least none that I can remember, and I have a dull deep low throbbing ache at the back of my brain. It never lets up; it has almost become my friend. I ask myself if this will be temporary, if like after my first conjoining I will re-learn all of these functions, and I am strangely sublime. It doesn’t, nothing actually, seems to matter. I still sleep most of the day, though I am waking by myself for an hour or so every four. Or so they tell me. So, is that progress? I do not know. I don’t really feel that different in myself. I still think I am Janek Smith, but that doesn’t seem so important either. I cannot access, but can remember recently reading, the data banks of the Hypercom I was conjoined with. But now it is like a white brick wall. Shiny white bricks whenever I go there, quite pretty but definitely solid bricks. I stand before them and gaze up and up and they go on forever. An amazing structure, I wonder who built it.
But it must have been me, there is no-one else in here with me. I am like a small wonder-filled child wandering around in my own mind, picking up small pieces of debris, turning them round in my hand and dropping them back. I cannot remember if they are the same pieces I examined yesterday. It doesn’t seem to bother me though. The only thing that annoys me is this headache. I know they are giving me drugs to dull the pain, but they simply dull my senses even further. They are also pumping me with wonder-nutrients, known for improving the damaged brains of accident victims. And that is what I am. An accident victim. They must have got the settings wrong. Maybe it was a mistake to try for a total transference in one attempt, but I was one of those asking for it. You see, I can still remember stuff from before my conjoining, not so clearly, a bit blurred, foggy, the sound dampened down a bit. It is simply that I do not seem capable of remembering anything since then.
But William, for I know you are reading this, don’t worry. All knowledge is useful. Do not give up on ‘select’. Do not give up on me. I will get better, but it may take some time. For now, that is enough. I want to, I need to, sleep again. Next time, why not talk to me face to face, like we used to. You once asked me if you could be my friend. Why not, William? I could do with a friend just now. For now, that’s all I want to say.