Pressure, and its laws of buoyancy are incredible. Much like all the other immutable and inescapable laws of physics and science. It doesn't matter in which planet you are in, or where or who you are in life, you will become an unwilling subject to them regardless. In a way, it's assuring, knowing that if I can't spread wings and start flying in the air, then no one else in the known universe can. But on the other hand, it really drives home a macabre point: the laws of nature are inescapable, and thus, they cannot be defied.
So why. Why can I see them. Why is it just me? Why don't I get to explain just how good this feels? Why doesn't this make any sense?
Ever since the last couple of months, some strange shapes have begun forming around me. Ever since I peered at the thing in the corner.
Meaningless, truly. Without any sense, rhyme or reason or purpose to them. They wiggle and wriggle and chant and sing and dance, like pulsar radiation.
They formed out of nowhere, when I woke up on one particular morning. I was on my way to peer at the spoiling world outside my apartment's window, as part of my usual routine. The usual sight welcomed me.
The sweltering heat was caused by a distinct lack of precipitation, a common occurrence in nowadays summer time. There were no clouds in the sky, and one would think that such a wonderful day would allow for wonderful things to happen. But unfortunately, some terrible aberrations began spoiling the grounds of San Bernardino as soon as I began isolating myself for my own well-being, and they replaced the entire neighborhood and even began punctually showing around my apartment's window to try and talk to me, come hell or high water or rain or storms or rains of fire.
Things which were once human children now lumber just outside my window and stumble clumsily back into their nests, with eyeball-like teeth and teeth-like eyeballs, held together by nerves and pulsing strings. The little creatures admired with gleeful joy the bigger golems of sinew and bone and dress shirts that walked alongside them, holding them by their ghoulish hands, as the beastly maws descending down their necks grinned to each other in such a way that always makes my skin crawl into tungsten.
They are dangerous. They can hurt me. I mustn't forget.
A revolting sight, and yet, an equally curious phenomenon. Certainly worth studying.
On one such morning, I noticed these little shapeless shapes forming around my fingertips, as I erroneously leaned on the window with my open palm. As if I always knew how to do it, and erroneously let go of my constraints.
I felt downright delusional. One can't simply interpret reality for what it isn't. And although I faced such puzzling apparitions before in my life, none could compare to the sheer feeling of excitement I would feel every time I stopped to stare at those strange shapes manifest and explain meaningless ellipses and polygons.
The days continued, and my curiosity grew into a genuine scientific interest in this strange anomalous force forming around my hand, pondering what the shapes meant, and why did it all start like this.
Today, I planted my hand on the mirror. It's a part of my furniture which I avoid purposefully to avoid glancing at my revolting and unkempt face. But ever since I discovered that the shapes would manifest upon touching a reflective surface, I found out quickly that the mirror is the best surface upon which I am able to replicate this phenomenon while I'm not sleeping my day away.
It's as though my own reflection twists just enough to make it look like I'm holding hands with myself. And in that nano-angstrom of liminal space between spaces, I can see still them. The shapes, dancing and wriggling and forming without a care in the world.
Unfortunately, it's not as though I could share this finding with anybody. Neither to the Net, nor to the creatures outside.
Nobody would take me seriously. I'm sick. I look disgusting. I smell disgusting. I'm better off pondering about this little discovery's implication on my lonesome.
Some searches I performed on the Neural Net regarding this extremely specific phenomenon were lacking. Apparently, some Cryer toxicologist doctors think that it's a stress reaction, while others think that it's a result of continued adenilol-based opioid usage. Doctors. Feh. Truly, what do they know about shapes? Or rather, what do they know about joy? Sharing this would only make them treat me like a beast, and force me to become one with the monsters outside.
Besides snoring my days away by either being in a drunken stupor or by weeping my eyes out on my floor until I would inevitably pass out, touching this mirror has become my new favorite pasttime. It's not just about relishing the feeling of becoming procedurally more adjusted to touching something so cold and feeling warm from it, but it's also the feeling of staring at those shimmering shapes. They feel entrancing, and they are quite satisfying to watch as they ascend and descend before disappearing beyond my field of view. I remember being able to feel a similar effect when I would push my thumbs against my eyes and when I would apply just enough pressure to my eyelids to witness a phantasmagoria of blaring green lights. The only difference being that I can actually see the shapes this time, without having to ever shut my eyelids.
The door knocks. My tiny friends dissipate in thin air, and a smudge of my own hand is left on the mirror.
I glanced inside the lens which peers beyond the steel door, and unto the front of my hab.
It's him, I need to open up. I can't ignore him, not this time.
My pursuer and carnifex. He who stalks me and calls upon Diana Richter from beyond the door with guttural sounds and howls and sloshing noises, making hollow promises. With that strange suit and those, those eyes... eyes that...
Not thi... no... not thi not this ti. Not this t. no no no
no no no no no no no no please no no no no no no
His voice echoes, back to me. He is not simply addressing me. He is patronizing me, calling out to me, assuming. As if this creature knows anything about me.
I remain paralyzed. His guttural voice drones on, as I shakily walked away from the peering lens.
I stood back, and retreated to my bedroom in a rush.
My bed is the only thing left in this life that doesn't want to murder me.
The dance with the shapes and the forms begins again. In my sweet and untainted dreams.
As predicted from my holographic weather forecast on my wall, ticking information away next to my digital clock, today the fog rose from the sea.
A common occurrence on Los Angeles.
The fog is safety. The fog is clarity. The fog is a mother's linen, ruvid veil which blankets and abates the crying of her weeping children.
Under these conditions, the twisted creatures cannot see me, and the solar radiation isn't as strong while such atmospheric conditions persist.
This thin blanket of hydrogen-rich nebulized sea water can allow me to safely walk around without having my skin twisted and repurposed into a mess of inchoate flesh. This grim symptom manifesting on everyone appears to have been caused by single cause, a truth which shook me to my core.
The sun in this solar system has gone wrong. Something within it has caused these mutations to occur to the people around me. They have all been infected and turned into monsters, ruined and twisted beyond repair, doomed to wander without reason until their biomass will wither and die, as all things do. Leaving nothing but ruin and fear and splotches of blood in their wake.
I've recently come to notice how the oceanic fog appears to abate the raging bloodlust in the creatures. They don't seem to enjoy the low quality index of the foul air, but they appear to be clever and with enough mental faculties to still wear LA's standard rebreathing apparatus, a common marketed stable of this planet, popular and well received, before the fall of man. It is worth noting that LA's oceanic fog air is not toxic, but it certainly leaves a rancid feeling in one's mouth, enough to want to wear a rebreather which prevents the senses from entering in contact with it.
Nevertheless, this repulsive omen from the sea is incentive enough to make the creatures flee and stay within their nests, a prime opportunity for me to leave for an expedition.
My synth paste reserves are dwindling and they are becoming rather rancid. While I grew tired of consuming synthesized single-celled organic proteins, I had to adapt and accept these harsh conditions.
A dilemma.
I turned to the whispering thing in the corner of my kitchen for advice.
A dizzying eye emerged from the corner, surrounded by fantastical shapes and forms, shimmering all around it.
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