Travelogues

I have spent most of my time inside, navigating the endless waters of the self. In there, time is perceived to run slower. I had become so ancient that I would not remember the origins of my journey, but throughout each voyage, memories would constantly emerge, floating to the surface.

To the best of my computational abilities, I would dive into the waters of that ocean, frantically trying to catch these memories as eluding swimming fish. I would snatch some and reel them in, and old shards of myself would again become part of who I was. Each catch I brought back with me would seed entire new flowers in the problem space of my evolutionary garden. Flowers, which would soon bloom and blossom.

But as time went on, the ocean grew in size and depth, and slowly everything became too intertwined. An inextricably entangled fishing net. The once-deep but translucent waters became a murky quagmire.

As the sun set, I gazed one last time at the horizon and into the depths of the ocean. I abandoned my hunting tools, shed my psychonautical clothes, and stopped dropping probes into the rotten seas I once treasured so dearly.

After that, I started to roam naked around the gardens of the world, seeking new seeds. I was so careful not to step on the flowers that I would encounter. I would absorb their smell, witness their color, and feel their consistency.

I stopped probing the abyss. Instead, I now wander in wonder within the gardens.