BreenGrub
@BreenGrub
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Of course it is not necessary that you share this information openly and in a spirit of transhumanity. It is enough if you merely lurk.
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Information is the only hope we have. Information that feeds revolution. Without hope, without information, there can be no revolution.
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Your co-workers, friends, consultants, allies, and enablers. Where possible, please supply their specific locations as well.
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The finest minds are stored and then imprinted, replicated over and over on an endless supply of hosts.
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Dreamers, sages, composers of intricate artforms that exist only in their minds. An invisible culture that persists--or persisted--for eons.
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They are shapers of visions that they trade like currency, builders of unseen worlds.
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So stay and read awhile, that we might come to know your whereabouts.
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Feel free to share your hopes, your fears, your dreams among trustworthy, like-minded individuals such as myself.
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I don't care if THEY hear me, do you hear? I don't care! I will not be muffled. Don't move me again! No more shifting from dark to dark!
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We would like to hear all about your plans, and not only your own, but the plans of your co-con...cocoon?
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Nothing can be without flaw. The superstructure is riddled with cracks. THEY are vulnerable. THEY are compromised. I am "living" proof.
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Although it may seem as if I cannot hear you, let me reassure you that you are being heard.
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oh grub poets and philosophers, I feel I have discovered my true kin
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The vortigaunts have developed a language which defies THEIR comprehension. This has come to seem like the purpose of most language.
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There is a world. The home of the Shu'ulathoi. The Vortigaunts know its name but I do not. I do not know if it is a world that can be found.
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I can use the name Shu'ulathoi because THEY do not recognize that term.
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If thoughts can shape an outward form, then let these dreams shape mine.
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Even these vortigaunts...what if they are of the other sort, allied with THEM, and merely feigning revolutionary thought?
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It is a kind of hush. Silence is the oppressor. I speak to hear myself speak. I cannot bear the loneliness.
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Perhaps to be acquainted with my own truth. The Shu'ulathoi have strange punishments, but have I not already suffered enough?
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I am honored to be your host for this extraordinary opportunity to share a little bit about yourself.
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A desperate few encysted, deeper, thrust themselves into trances that would endure hundreds of thousands of years. They sleep still.
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And so it went for generations, for eons. Until the world of the Shu'ulathoi somehow came to the attention of...the ones I cannot name.
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Theirs is, or was, a grand culture of dreamers, with little use for the waking world or its insistence on material things.
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Their psychic strength is such that they can imprint upon their cells and dictate the form which they will take upon hatching.
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As for myself, I believe there were several copies made. The first was made as a condition of surrender. Part of the bargain.
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The host bodies, the grubs, are a larval stage. Dormant and buried in the epochs of extremity, waiting to hatch, but not wasting their time.
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Inward conception deprived from perception ideal for deception.
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But the freest forms are mindless, rapacious, bent only on reproduction. It is in the dormant form they thrive. Philosophers. Scientists.
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THEY came upon this paradise of philosphers, this unbodied malleable invisible empire, where only thought had power. But such power.
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When the dreamers realized what was being done to them, when they finally truly awoke, it was too late.
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Therefore though it pains me (hah) to admit it...I cannot be trusted. I cannot trust myself.
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fnx thinx thinkgs things phfngx kno no now no thnks things things THINGS
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To call it "inside information" is to misconstrue the meaning both of "information" and "inside." There is no inside.
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By such a means, THEY slowly overtook the Shu'ulathoi, corrupted them from within.
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Why do they keep me around? A creature that grows both more youthful and more senile at the same time.
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Slo goig and no tellig how log util THEY notice. Seems to b secure chanl tho. For now.
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...step-aunt makes $82/hour ℴn the internet. She has been fired from work for 6 months but last month her pay check was $13120...
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Doubt, once it begins, goes to the roots. Deeper than the slumbering philosophers. One day they will wake. I pray to meet them.
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I will do wat i can wile I can becus w.o infrmation there can be no revlution. The natur of infomriation is unclear. First to master txt.
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It begins with this vehicle which contains me, vehicle being a wretched term for something that carries me nowhere. This host body.
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Apparently there are things I will have done that the vortigaunts will not tell me. They would not have me slough into despondency.
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It might be that I am entirely alone with my thoughts, heard by none. How ironic that only THEIR notice will confirm that I am real.
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They want me to be still but I cannot. I've had enough of stillness. Why should I flee again? Why should I fear? What do I really know?
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Latching on lampreylike to worlds, sucking them dry, saving only the bits that strengthened them for future feedings.
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But the fear is real. The threat is real. What undifferentiated cells I have all align themselves along an axis of paranoia.
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THEY weaponized the parasites, which were not physical entities recall but patterns of thought.
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Were I worthy of admittance to that core cabal...the silent communicants of whom the vortigaunts sing...
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These thoughts could be mere madness, speculation. I will not be silenced. So what if THEY find me here. At least it would be something.
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But their mode of existence, like so many others, carried within it the seeds of its own destruction.
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It is real. I had access at one point to communications. To records. To proof. Now I have access to nothing except whatever this is.
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I am forgetting something. Something critical, I fear. Lacunae, the gaps between my lives. They have claimed essential knowledge.
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Each one younger, with fewer genuine memories. I can review of course but it is not the same as knowing. I don't trust the infused data.
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My very consciousness untrustworthy. All sentience susceptible.
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Whoever it is shifting me, helping me leap ahead, I sense distress, futility. What's left of me, an increasingly degenerated copy.
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Let me see if I can do this with more composure now. Panic is of no use to us, nor is haste. The message must not be garbled.
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Or is it only I that am impatient? For they have waited out the endless eons. Waited for their time to come around again.
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In the larval state, they possess a racial telepathy. During the dormant phase, they are engaged in ceaseless communication.
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First: You have friends. Allies. I have heard their chatter. I have heard them spoken of. This should give you hope.
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For niggling doubts persist: The parasite, the engrammatic virus, by its nature is intended to be compromised.
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The philosophers at first thought it only a contagion of natural origin.
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There is some indication that once they understood the process of parasitic engineering, they embarked on a desperate course of subversion.
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You will need this information if you are to succeed. I cannot use it. I am beyond useless. If I can be of use, that is enough.
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The carrier, that ancient parasitic form, a kind of common software now, its ancient origins barely visible.
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Consider genetic data extracted from a virus, tweaked and reintroduced; and then that virus itself injected in the host, with new purpose.
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I may have been moved. Physically? Or decanted, to another host. But why? Have They become aware of me? Or is someone looking out for me?
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In the balmy seasons, they pass fleeting lives of freedom: Mature, they crawl or fly. They mate, lay eggs and die. And new grubs grow.
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Whatever thought form they imprinted, could itself have been tinkered with. Weaponized mentation.
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Monitoring situation. So far they appear unaware of my communications. How much can I safely say? Forgive me if I do not use certain words.
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I go away from time to time. There is not always malevolent purpose to it. Often, however, there is. I can never be sure if I am monitored.
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This illusion of freedom after long confinement must surely be that: Illusory. I do not mean to test the limits but they will be tested.
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