At precisely 177 degrees relative to the left periphery of my inflexible scope, Sol's piercing luminance betrays the flaw in the sheer rock face, marking the beginning of today's meditations. The discipline has become necessary, 177 degrees until 209; more than this and the impossibility of suicide becomes too hard to bear.
Human, or transhuman, frailty is so oft disguised, bundled in layers of neotenic devices, augmented bodies, the constant chattering hive mind of the mesh, carefully curated by our personal artificials.
Each piece, aforementioned, has been bent or broken, and the visage that once transcended the scant humanity is now mocked by the remainder. Of what use is life eternal, or near enough, with nothing to do? Nowhere to go? Our epigenetic manipulations have yielded a super-social species, raised, in cases, from birth with a muse to provide comfort from the layered frenzy, and companionship. Like bio-twins, speaking in the tongues of angels, we extend ourselves and become one with what is wholly Other.
This plasticity of identity, extends. I sometimes wonder what I'm up to - how long it took the corp to declare me dead or unrecoverable, what the insurance paid to my resleeve in compensation for the lost body and months. Truth be told, I fear missing out on my own experiences more than I fear that far horizon of death.
In lieu of breadth I'm attempted to compensate with depth. I've memorized every skein of this Martian crevasse. 209 til 177 is cataloging. Observations are recited, compared with previous. Gradations play tricks on my sensory apparati but I tally and adjust the mean. The mining operations intended are a fool's errand; if corpside is worth anything I'll soon be out again, to complete the report sitting inert in memory, trapped between two faces. The report is my talisman, recited in parts and wholly after 209 each rotation.
The breaking light marks a shift in mood, however. Pooled at the bottom of my gaze, the ruster limbs recline solicitously, taunting me with studious inaction. The virtues of fleeing the mortal coil for a mechanical or digital existence plays perverse games with a psyche still oriented towards death. If only the Sisyphean boulder would roll, and crush - instead, I pray to 209 degrees for asteroid strikes, tectonic shifts, misapplied mining detonations.
Death is impossible and unreal. The future's horizon is now measured geologically. Centuries await, every trace of either face will weather observed, relegated to reciting lines in hopes of a desirous glance from offstage, beckoning. Hope's fool prance, and death's figure beckons, but they are both a mirage, dissipating into the same stolid, lonely bleak.
Life is despair. Death is observation.
Word Count: 446
End Notes: This is fan fiction based on the world of the roleplaying game Eclipse Phase.