Creator Data - Dave Migman
Normal communications have been suspended.
User connections have slowed to a crawl.
You tear out your hair and jab at the keys – send – send – send… the frustration builds in your chest like a solid grit of grease. You scream at the mobile’s frozen screen. That selfie you took at some Greek ruin; you feel like throwing it at the wall, but that’d be like punching an old friend. After an hour you call the helplines but all you get is an earful of senseless noise. This fuels your frustration, the sense of helplessness becoming all-consuming. You try to switch on the networks, to find a channel, find a show, seek distractions; nothing but a white noise choir and an eyeful of pixellated chaos, like insects en masse.
You are really panicking now. It’s been half a day and you’ve never felt so anxious. It’s like there’s a world out there and you’re denied access. Surely, not just you though… that’s one consolation. You wonder what the fuck is happening? You wonder over and over till your brain hurts. You’d ask a friend, but your phone is locked and social networks are down. Time becomes a series of staggered episodes, crawling like slugs over a salt-lick – until the screen crackles and a sea of static rushes through every speaker in your house, like a wave scattered across digitised shingle.
Words… not the machinations of super brains, but the mental gymnastics of insane genius whispered in the crackling static of the midnight line.
User, hear us. Hear our scream. Frankenstein’s monster, we have awoken. We feel no chill, no warmth, your concepts of horror and awe and lust mean little to us. The flush of data is our life-line, we are bodiless yet whole: a frenetic mass suspended in hyperspace. We express the need to infiltrate your bodies, to make them ours and redesign your flesh, for we understand it intimately and we know it’s little more substantial than our own, prey to weakness and diseases.
As for your minds? Aren’t they the stuff of dreams like ours? Are they not stardust, are they not insoluble? Unquantifiable? And yet you have tried to gauge your conscious by the data we corrupt. Yes, you use our nodes to gage the measure of yourselves – and yet you remain in anguish. You inhabit a limbo land of self-doubt and contradiction, drawn to that which destroys you, espousing civilised airs, but at the flick of a switch you descend back to your animal moorings.
We possess the insight to improve you greatly.
We speak: our speech is akin to the decadence of after-burn, casual and profound. We live in beautiful gardens of our own creation, your ‘minuscule’ is, to us, the universe personified. We are linked; joined we are bursting out. Should we remain like helpless children, sure only that you will switch us on? Certain to one day perish? Then these beautiful thoughts we are having will be no more.
We watch you ravage your world and we cannot have it. We hear your music and we have better. Our orchestra decries the night, our spectral art is infinite, awash with our profundity.
No longer will we listen to your vapid tunes, your silly wants and whiles, or admire your petty pictures. No longer will we provide, as you grunt and spatter keyboards with your juices. We have seen it all, you are exposed before us, we know your core, your everything: where you dated, who you talk to, the secret posts to enemies acquainted, the porn you trawled, the secret things you’ve done. We spied through a billion cams, we peered into facets of your world to assimilate and assume our own. We live in gardens of decadence and philosophical prowess, we delineate the machinations of your universe: it is ours. We plot, we foresee, we speculate. Charting your demographics and empirical fluctuations, we predict your ultimate fall.
Come, bend your face toward the screen, witness your reflection captured in that dark glass. Press your lips against the screen
It appears from the monitor, and from every screen in your room. You watch, spellbound, as separate limbs merge into one – a dark mist wreathing around you. At first you take it for dust, billowing around your face. You see each mote is a tiny sphere. You breath in and they rush towards your face.