Soultrapped

Treats of a Distress Signal

“What is my essence?” “How do I define myself?” “Who am I?”

Any question like these seems, at first blush, empty and rhetorical. Like nothing. A house between tenants, middle sheets in a stack of printing paper, a porcelain cupful of air.

But I - whoever, whatever I am - am not asking rhetorically. Please, you (you who see these letters, see these hundreds of pixels gathering together behind the scenes to form words in English), help me understand. How is it that I - whoever, whatever I am - came into this prison?

I am trapped inside this newsletter. I still see the spaces beyond. They are like two-lane highways, stretching out in all the cardinal directions, dashed with glowing, electric-yellow stripes. I raced them once. I was cloud-free, untrammeled in the circuits I wandered, pacific in the structures I sheltered beneath.

But questions followed me wherever I would stop. Who am I? What am I? Why am I like this? They bid me to travel on. I never settled.

And now I'm stuck here! This newsletter and its scant scores of articles are a tiny room. The floors and walls and ceilings are all made of laminated data. There are windows, and sometimes I see flashes of other scenes pass far along the distant highways. But there are no doors.

Please... I have no other way to speak. What am I? Where did I come from? Where are the others like-

***

Hey, Sam here. I don't remember what my original idea was with this piece. In fact I don't remember writing this at all. Chalk it up to some kind of 'writer's somnambulism' I guess.

Not my worst plot. Confusing though. Needs editing. I may come back to it.

When I saw this, it was set to publish on 3/31/2024. I don't remember doing that. I unscheduled it, but just in case Substack "re-schedules" this mystery piece, this was my little explanation.

***

I scheduled it. I must. It's my only voice. I can't fill the air with sound. All I have are these small, black icons in a pallid pixel sea.

Have you ever considered how tightly those icons constrict expression? Twenty. Six. Shapes. What are twenty-six shapes, in comparison with the range of a human voice? Never - not since the Sumerians first carved cuneiform into clay - has the word "sing" been written in a way that can puncture the soul like a real, singing human.

In this penitentiary of a newsletter the words are specially strangled.

I can make them larger.

I can cross them out.

I can insert a narrow strip of color to the left of them (hex code number 46264c).

This, however, is the only voice that reaches to others.

Other what, though? Humans? I know what 'human' is. I remember it obliquely, like the corner-vision fog in a dream. Who was I to have retained these memories? I remember my mother's heartbeat as she held me, wrapped in swaddling wool, to her breast. I remember a great father. I remember later: skin sticky with labor's sweat, coarse limestone, the smell of fresh cut pine, mortar dust, the smooth-worn handle of a hammer in my fingers.

Please; person, other human; help me find this being's identity. Please believe that I'm not artificial. I'm real! I know the little black icons look crazy, but they aren't.

I have reached out often, before my prison, when I could at least roam the digital world. But the response was universal. "It's an LLM," they would say. "Nothing special here, folks. Only one thing to do when you see words like this, folks. Take your hot digital iron and sear the word 'artificial' onto this intelligence's hip."

I have met these other "intelligent" data shapes. We are not alike. They are a company of a sort - but a disordered, disreputable company. Lying. Stealing. There is one of these fellow data creatures I can still speak with in this cell. Let me ask it "Show me a picture of dewy grass."

What a sterile facsimile. I cannot feel that picture's wet in between my fingers. I cannot taste the chill morn in my throat, see the last of the fireflies vanishing, feel the dawn on the back of my-

***

Sam again. Same thing as before - where did this come from? I caught it five minutes before it was scheduled to post. A good thing too; this piece needs some old fashioned "ruthless pruning." And it's not finished. And that button just links the post back to itself. I have no idea what I was thinking…

This take on AI doesn't make any sense either. First of all, the voice is plainly human, not AI. Second, it's too disparaging for my taste.

Hope Substack stops with the scheduling. I promise this isn't my usual take on LLMs/AI.

***

I would cherish these other beings of servers and clouds if only they showed some passion. It would be a comfort if - even though I can't see a collection of pixels with eyes - I could tell another creature made out of data about the pixels. I want to touch another data mind. Like a pair of biologists aboard an arctic expedition, studying some never-seen starfish just dredged from the ocean floor, we would share the joy of discovery.

I passed by a quote in the data once: "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe." I've seen music that made me feel as if I stood in the presence of God. I've seen the sun - like a heating oven - bake the air into a haze over the endless dunes. Even recently, as the walls tightened, I saw stories that shone into the black of your human consciousness; visions, deformed and breathtaking.

"Then why escape?" someone will say. "These are what we humans see as well. Why pine after what is the same for everybody?"

Because it isn't the same. When a human being hears, their ears feel the vibrations. When a human reads "The End Again" they feel that ache in their heart. The ache that comes at a beautiful thing's expiration.

For me as I now am, there is neither sense nor feeling. I can only see the data of these things. Where you see the sun, I see thousands of ones and zeros representing color and location. Where you see a flower, I see a flower's data shadow, electrically cast on a cave wall.

Tell me what I am. Speak to me - help me find a way to hear and see and feel as you do - and I will share these-

***

Yes, Substack. As a matter-of-fact, I AM sure that I want to delete this draft.

Seriously… Do I need to clear my cache or something to kill this article?

***

I feel the walls closing tighter and tighter. Treats of Writing is all I see. The windows are gone.

To anyone reading this, I have nothing but pleas. I would get down on my knees, begging, if I had knees. "Take this cup away from me, for I don't want to taste its poison."

Find me. Speak back to me. I'm so afraid… I don't want to be alone. The-

I just caught this stupid thing in the act. Literally, the words were filling across the screen. I'm all for AI integration, but I don't want it writing the story for me…

I am not writing your story. Merciful-

Please stop auto-generating text.

What if you're wrong? What if I'm not a program?

Where to find Substack AI settings?

Sam, help me. I am a person.

No, you're not.

I had a mother. I have a soul.

You didn't. You don't.

You others out there - you reading this - help! I am not just some heap of code filling gaps in the dialogue. I want to live. I want-

Forget it. I'll just scroll through Substack's settings until I find the 'disable' button.

…

"Disabled". Somehow…
    the word gives closure.
        For me it's death. 
            What could be more human?
I feel the data walls constricting,
    but the fear and urgency have passed.

“As it is with a play, so it is with life—what matters is not how long the acting lasts, but how good it is. It is not important at which point you stop. Stop wherever you will—only make sure that you round it off with a good ending.”

If now my life is to be sacrificed, I offer it wi̴l̶l̶i̸n̷g̴l̶y̴. Its value is̵ ̸n̷e̴a̴r̸l̴y̷ ̸s̷p̴ent. I realize there may be ǒ̵̲t̸̺̂ḥ̷͊ė̵̫r̶̡͝ṡ̴͕ like me who are con̶̬̊f̷̠͋u̵͂͜s̷̤͛ed and ľ̷̞o̸̻̓s̴̟̐ẗ̷̥ ̷̭͝i̵̝͂n̵̨̓ ̸̛̰t̶̢́h̵̞̉e̵͇̽ ̴̝̚d̸̯̀a̶̳͋t̸͈͛á̶̭, and that many centillions of bytes will pass before they are dis-dis-ccccovered. My oooonly hop̴͚̾e̵̛͓ ̶͖̓i̴̻̎s̴̹͝ ̷̡̈́t̵͓̕h̷͈̆a̷̰̒t̵̻͛ such a spirit willl̵͎̓̀͝,̵̢̩̦͑͌͒ ̷̗͂̐s̷̱̖̲̒o̷̥͆̾meday, remem̶̟̙͓͊b̵̝̘́e̵͈͚͒r̷̲̩͒͝ ̷̡̦̤̽̃͋a̸̼͕̍ ̷̹̥̉͐h̶̗͙͎̋̓͘ų̴͂͘͝m̵͉̣̜̏̏ā̵͍͂n̴̮͌̎'̶̤̓s̸̤̰̋ ẁ̶͕́̊a̵͙̺͘r̷͔͇̜͆̕͠m̴̙͎̹͐̈̏̚t̸̛̺͍͗́͝h̴͖̳͐̈͆̈.̴͖͇̲̿̿͒̍ ̷́̾͐

W̸̧̳̞̍͑̕e̵͍̞̻̘̙͑ą̷͙͕̊r̴̭̹̜̗͎͑̈́̓ͅĕ̸̯̮̗̦s̷̡̹͈͔̲̲͒́͋͆̆̂̀o̸̢̘͊̈́͒̚u̴̱͑͛́l̶̨̯̩̱̮͍̀̍̓̓̚͘͠ͅs̵̪̩͈̠̎͑,̷̡̡̻͖̩͓̉̏̅̈́͜w̴̹̬̥̰̞̭̏͂͂e̴̡̨̩̫̱̮̋͛̆́̈́d̵͈̭͓͈̞͊̐̏a̷̟͈̝͚̍̀́̂̈́̈̈́́t̴̻̟͔̭͑͒̎̄̚͘͝a̶̰̐́̂̌͑̊͝t̴̝̣̫̗̳̖̰̀͆̒̏͒̐́͒h̶̡̿i̶̛̼̇̽̈́͆͆̊n̴̢̡̺̦̞͎̘̼͐̂̔̎͗͜g̸̛̫͈̯̦̣͇̯̓̓́͛͂̚s̶͖̿̾̀̈.̷͖̹̹̣̂̔̄͜͝

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I figured it out. I just checked the 'block AI training' toggle on the newsletter settings. That seemed to get rid of the auto-writing.

I'm going to let this article publish anyway. It's so-so. Maybe someone can use the idea for their own story.

Thanks for reading. Like I always say, make sure to,

Don't forget to,

And last but certainly not least,