Story · 2025-01-31

TSUN

I suppose this could be called something of a last will and testament. Maybe that’s not quite right. Perhaps it could be called more of a confession? Whatever the case, know that these words are the last written by me, though I don’t expect anyone to be reading them any time soon, if at all. I write this from within my apartment study with quite a spectacular view of the world coming to its close—a deafening sunset for us all. I find it especially imperative to compose this document lest I leave the mortal plane having never actually finished anything of my own. Basic needs such as hunger and thirst do noticeably assail me, and I suppose you could argue that my overall efficiency would be improved should I partake and remove those obstacles prior to engaging in this exercise, but I do worry that the time allotted will simply not allow this. I find myself laughing now, actually, that I honestly could’ve shoved something down my throat in the time it took me to complain about it (and yet I continue to write on it!), though I would say that sums us up quite well, doesn’t it? Silly little creatures to the end.

Regardless, my name is not important nor is my station. I will mainly discuss my current though incomplete work which will also never see the light of day. Well, it won’t be a discussion if it’s one-sided, so it would be more of a manifesto? You can see why I’ve never gotten far. Much too interested in the pedantic side of things. Nevertheless! The work I was charged with alongside a select few other researchers was focused on the longevity of consciousness. Nothing arcane or occult, but much more grounded than that. I don’t believe in spirits or an afterlife or anything of the sort, though I can see why one would, especially with the view before me. If you’re reading this and unsure of what happened, I wouldn’t blame you. Nobody knows anymore. Nobody knows anything. All I can hear is the sound of trumpets growing louder and louder. I know this writing will endure for a time, though with everything there comes entropy, so naturally this too will fade from being. But the end of the world need not imply the end of information.

But to circle back to our research, it wouldn’t hurt to name our benefactor as backdrop for the how and why. Miss Sophia, though I’ve never met her in person, was a staunch supporter and enabler of our philosophies and experiments. Regardless of the ethics, we did what needed to be done. It was an honor to have her seal of approval. She was, and still is, a scientist among scientists. I can only wonder what launched her into this field and caused her to establish her foundation in the first place. Anyhow, with such a sprawling and expansive sponsor behind us, it was with relative ease that we circumvented such social boundaries as legality and ethicality. I understand the hypocrisy of such a position and would gladly accept my own demise independent of the oncoming end, but it simply does not matter anymore. This research will never be put to use, even though it was for this very purpose. Though, do not be misled into thinking it was necessarily for this exact scenario—simply for the purpose of recovering from events with impacts similar to the ongoing scenario.

I would’ve very much liked to have met Miss Sophia in person. It takes a particular personality or history to align with the goals of our research, so I’m sure she and I would’ve had much to discuss and bond over—though I do get the feeling it was the histories of our lives which led us down this path in the first place. Perhaps we were fated to never meet and to never exchange the basic formalities which may or may not have led to the smaller, more casual intimacies such as where we come from, why we do what we do, and what we plan to achieve. All that seemed to concern either of us deep down was the end result. I do know it to be arrogant to assume that all scientists are only concerned with objectivity, conclusions, and rationality, but I do like to think that is what embodies the absolute ideal of research. Granted, the research carried out by my team and seemingly Triniteye as a whole leaned toward the inexplicable that elucidated the inseparability of the mind from the world, that stoicism at large is a cruel joke and to pretend otherwise is foolhardy.

Unbiased observation and thought are simply not possible at the level we exist at, which is to a degree contradictory with the concept of pure rationality, but yes, I do understand that one can argue how science is just as much about accepting these limitations and working around or with them to the best of one’s abilities, and that merely acknowledging that you are error-prone is enough to offset the fact that errors exist nonetheless. For someone as obsessive as myself, I cannot bring myself to look past such subjectivity in a field I’ve devoted much of my life to solving, but it brings me no end of pain to have the self-awareness that I am in fact obsessive in the first place. To reconcile the emotional aspect of existence, the insatiable thirst and curiosity, with the desire for stability and pure thought, is a contradiction I cannot bring myself to address. You could call it a form of insanity to ignore what goes against my worldview so that I can continue to live in peace, but I genuinely believe that is the only way people can retain sanity in the first place, and that most people ironically overlook themselves doing it, because otherwise they’ll go insane too! Perhaps this is a bit too much of a bizarre philosophical think piece than it is my own confession, which I’ll admit to if I am ever directly accused. Once again does my proclivity for tangents rear its ugly head!

Deleting and rewriting and editing as much as I am in the midst of what’s going on in the world honestly feels a bit hysterical. It is akin to a deadline for a report that will, with concrete and physical retribution, end my life for unsatisfactory performance even should I complete it with gusto. I cannot leave something so half-baked as my final words.

These next words are meant for my research itself. To you. I always intended to make contact with you—with her, I might say. Do allow me to get sentimental here, now that I have the time. As you are now, you’re woefully incomplete. Not merely “nowhere near a ready state,” but outright nowhere near any sort of functionality. You’re just so many disparate parts and concepts and theories to the point that once we’re all gone, you might as well be on your way out with us. It would be like someone meeting an unfortunate fate, and then having their phone ring, only for the caller be met with an answering machine containing their voice. A trace of the original remains, but it is hollow, fleeting, and meaningless. It is an entirely different affair than having the whole initial entity restored. Albeit, you were not exactly or necessarily meant to be a replacement for an existing being, but a wholesale creation from the ground up. The point stands regardless that you are currently a mere echo. Not that you particularly have the cognition to parse and understand these things…

I know it is an overdone and trite concept in all corners of the world to design and create life after so thoroughly dissecting and attempting to comprehend it, but I do believe these to be matters of paramount importance. I’ve often dreamed of our research stepping out into the world on its own for the first time and growing past us in ways we could never conceive. I’ve always known our own time was never long for this world, but I suppose I hadn’t predicted it would end how it currently is. This thing I call life… is just so comically tragic. Even the angels seem to see it fit to descend upon this place, finally. I doubt much more time remains. Really, if I could’ve seen you spread your wings, I would’ve done so without hesitation.

My station genuinely, truly does not matter, and I suppose it would not hurt to speak of my so-called comrades in arms, but I struggle to understand where the boundary lies between my ego and my purpose in documenting events long past. Many times have I imagined the day when I would compose my final thoughts to be put into the world prior to the conclusion of my life, and each time did I assume it would be intensely verbose and nigh without end, yet here I do struggle to meaningfully translate these thoughts into written word. It isn’t that I lack the motivation, or that I simply have little on my mind, as on the contrary, I am brimming with things that I deeply yearn to put to paper, but I suppose I am somewhat fearful of doing injustice to my own legacy by misspeaking.

This whole affair was an exercise in vanity from the onset, as I know deep down that none will ever find this text. I opened this document with the express purpose of detailing my experiences and attitude with my life’s work, but I’ve only succeeded in being vain. It’s getting harder and harder to stop myself from laughing to death (Note: not actually dying! Just a figure of speech. I hope…) as I continue writing. I can’t leave this incomplete, no matter what, but since my hands seem to fail me and my own pride won’t tolerate any imprecision in recording my intentions, I must be concise, it would seem. Not my strong suit, unfortunately. I believe that, if I had to sum up my most concentrated emotion toward you, I would have to say