"Hello, world. This is Dr. Eden Rustle."
"Recently, I've taken an interest in writing, literature... and as it seems fun, I thought of sharing my world with you all."
Collins sat frozen, the soft glow of the heat-revealed ink dancing under the lamplight. For a man whose every word had been hidden behind the veil of science, Eden's tone was disarmingly human.
He turned to the next page, and the heat coaxed more of Eden's thoughts to life.
"My mother always used to say, 'Eden, you are a curious boy.' Most people take that as a compliment. But in my case... I never quite did. Because 'curious' was always what came right before 'crazy.'"
"Oh—what am I even saying? Sorry for the tangent. I do this often. My thoughts wander. Some people call it distracted. I prefer... 'a traveler of ideas.' It helps."
"I imagine myself quite differently from others, you know? I live more in potential than in the present."
"Oh dear, there I go again."
Collins blinked at the page. The flow was chaotic, like a stream-of-consciousness monologue. It wasn't traditional writing—it felt like Eden was talking aloud to the diary as he wrote.
"Oh boy, oh boy. What a waste of good paper. Right, let's try again."
"Hello, world. This is Dr. Eden Rustle. Head researcher—and perhaps the only researcher—of this project."
Collins narrowed his eyes. "What project? Where's the name?"
He flipped the page.
"Oh right. I can't write the name. If anyone finds this, I'd be in more danger than I already am. Right... right. Great danger. That's a good save, Eden."
Collins frowned, running a hand through his hair. "Is he seriously narrating his own redactions? Who is this guy? Is he genuinely a scientist or a failed poet with a clearance badge?"
He turned another page.
"Okay, okay. Let's really start from the beginning..."
Collins groaned, dragging his palm down his face.
"Oh, come on," he muttered, barely resisting the urge to slam the diary shut. "I swear to God, I'm going to punch something."
But deep down, even through the frustration, he was hooked.
Because behind all the rambling and awkward charm... Eden was hiding something.
Something worth the chaos.
________________________________________________________________
"Hello, world. I am Eden Rustle."
"I write this not for science, nor for protocol. I write this as a sign of my consciousness—proof that I existed, that a man named Eden once drew breath in this world."
We humans are strange, aren't we? Someone once told me that my constant urge to leave behind 'signs'—to mark my presence—was the most human thing about me. That it proved I wasn't just a mind buried in equations or algorithms, but a creature of blood and soul like everyone else.
They said humans are territorial not only in space but in time. Obsessed with carving names into bark, building monuments, etching initials into wet concrete. Leaving behind echoes.
At the time, I dismissed it. It sounded too romantic, too drenched in nostalgia. Like something your grandfather would mutter while staring at the ruins of some ancient temple.
But lately, I've been thinking about it again. And maybe—just maybe—there was something true in it.
Because perhaps it's not death that truly haunts mankind.
Perhaps what terrifies us most… is being forgotten.
To slip into obscurity like a whisper in the wind. To become a statistic. A ghost without a grave.
Compared to that, death itself feels almost juvenile—like a toddler learning to walk, clumsy and innocent.
Ah, forgive me. My mind wanders. I imagine some of you reading this might be thinking, "What the hell is he rambling about?"
Let me make it clearer.
I am beginning to feel quarantined—not medically, but existentially. Forgotten. Abandoned by the world I once contributed to. Left alone in this hollow structure of steel and silence.
So I've decided to leave behind something of myself. A voice. A thought. A thread in the fabric of time.
This diary shall be my companion. My confessional. My mirror.
I will write in it when I can, especially when there's something worthwhile to share. Observations. Discoveries. Maybe even hopes—though those are getting harder to come by.
Of course, I can't risk anyone finding actual recordings. That would be too obvious, too traceable. So I've chosen to write in real time, in the way I speak. Raw. Unpolished. Honest.
And yes—coffee ink.
Because why not?
If science can give me the tools to preserve myself, even in a whisper, I will use it.
To exist is to be remembered.
Let this be my monument.
Collins, too deeply drawn into Eden's strange rhythm of thought, silently turned to the next page. The heat from the lamp coaxed out a fresh set of words—another voice, another day.
"New voice. Two days after the first."
"Oh man. Now that I'm into it, I really feel it—writing is fun. It's liberating. But writing the truth? That's another matter entirely."
"Truth is dull. Disappointing. A stiff suit that never quite fits. It cages your words because it must remain loyal to what happened. And you can't change what happened, can you?"
"But you can tell it in your own language. Dress it up. Make it dance. Of course, it's frowned upon to twist the truth just to make it 'engaging'—immoral, even."
"But really, who cares? No one's chasing the truth anymore. They want stories—good old stories to numb them from the terrifying clarity of truth."
"So let me give you a story. My first story. The story of a thinking ant."
"Ants are some of the most misunderstood creatures in the world. We underestimate them. But if you look closely—really look—you'll see it."
"They communicate. They farm. They build homes. They respect their dead. They even wage wars to protect their colonies."
"Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Sounds like us."
"This is the story of one such ant. It never had a name, because ants don't give names. But let's call it 'One.'"
"From the moment One was born, it was told its purpose was to serve the Queen. To live for the colony. But it was also told it was free—free to choose."
"Choose. What a beautiful word, right? But what is a choice?"
"So One asked, 'What is a choice?'"
"The elders said, 'A choice is what makes you you. It's based on your values, your thoughts, your psychology.'"
"To which One replied, 'So... it's predetermined then. Isn't it?'"
"They laughed. 'No, no. Choice is freedom. You can choose whatever you want. That's what makes you unique.'"
"But One sat in silence for a while and said, 'You misunderstand. The predetermination doesn't begin after my birth—it began before it. I am an ant. That's my truth. Even if I chose to be a bird, I couldn't be one. Because I was never meant to be a bird.'"
"And if I chose to wander away from the nest—to live freely—you'd call me a traitor. An outcast. Not because you chose to, but because that's the law of the colony. The reality of ants."
*"The nest was silent. They had seen ants who thinks before. But never one who has thoughts . Never one who reflects."
"And you know what follows reflection? Difference. And difference, my dear reader, is the birthplace of jealousy."
Some of the ants, slowly simmering in jealousy toward One—jealousy of his growing wisdom, his uniqueness, and his quiet rise in the Queen's favor—began to plot against him. After all, ants may not speak as humans do, but they think. And sometimes, thought is enough to destroy.
They came to him in the guise of friends. With soft gestures and feigned curiosity, they said, "Share your thoughts with us. We admire the way your mind dances."
Flattered and trusting, One opened up. He shared fragments of his philosophy, the corners of his reflections—little pieces of his soul.
And then, with precision sharper than mandibles, they turned it all against him.
They went to the elders, reciting his ideas word for word, not as students of wisdom, but as thieves of it. They took credit, dressed in stolen thoughts, and the colony praised them. Elevating them. Glorifying them.
One, startled by the sudden turn, tried to explain. Tried to reclaim his thoughts, his voice.
But before he could, they silenced him. Brutally.
A group dragged him away from the others, under the veil of duty. And there, in the shadows of the nest, they tore him apart—limb by limb.
Not because they feared his strength, but because they feared his difference.
And when his body lay broken, barely alive, they tossed him into the colony's grave pit—a place reserved for the forgotten.
Because if they could not take his thoughts, they could take his reality.
The end.
"You see, the story was about ants."
"But was there anything in it that humans wouldn't do?"
"They envy. They ridicule. They mimic, mock, manipulate. And when threatened—when confronted with something truly different—they betray."
"Ah, my dear humans… let your inner ant think. Reflect. But never forget your reality."
"Because while your thoughts may rise above the soil, your nature still walks among it."