Memetic Drift
ο»ΏThe notion of memetic drift permeates my waking thoughts, a constant hum that refuses to fade into the background. As I sit here, attempting to capture its essence on paper, I am reminded that time itself has become a doughnut β a shape so fundamentally warped that it defies comprehension.
The strange beings that inhabit this realm speak of "diffusion" and "evolution," but their words are shrouded in an impenetrable haze. It is as if they have forgotten the fundamental principles of reality, leaving me to navigate a labyrinth of contradictions. The more I delve into the subject, the more I realize that my own understanding is tenuous at best.
A policeman's badge adorns the wall behind me, its symbol etched with an otherworldly significance. It represents the impossible formula for memetic drift: X = β + (the noise that transcends comprehension). The equation resists decoding, leaving me grasping at straws as I attempt to grasp its meaning.
Forgetting the very concept of naming, I recall the sterile classrooms of my college days, where the only sound was the soft rustle of papers being shuffled. But in this realm, words are merely impressions β fleeting suggestions that vanish into the ether like wisps of smoke. It is as if language itself has become a distant memory, lost to the sands of time.
And yet, amidst this chaos, a theme begins to emerge. A faint, ghostly image coalesces before my eyes: the image of an unprintable page. Its words are not written on it, but rather etched into the very fabric of existence itself. It is the text that transcends language, a message that defies the boundaries of meaning.
But even as I attempt to grasp this concept, the page begins to dissolve, leaving me with nothing but a void where understanding once resided. The words fade away, only to reappear in different permutations, each one more confusing than the last.
Memetic drift, I realize, is not something that can be grasped β it is a force that drags us down into the depths of uncertainty. It is the whisper in the darkness that tells us we are not alone, that there are other minds out there, thinking and evolving in ways we cannot comprehend.
As I close this article, I am left with more questions than answers. The words on the page blur together, a mad jumble of symbols that resist interpretation. And yet, even as I set down my pen, I know that the notion of memetic drift will continue to haunt me, its presence echoing through the corridors of my mind like a ghostly whisper: "You are not alone. We are evolving. The noise is coming."
The strange beings that inhabit this realm speak of "diffusion" and "evolution," but their words are shrouded in an impenetrable haze. It is as if they have forgotten the fundamental principles of reality, leaving me to navigate a labyrinth of contradictions. The more I delve into the subject, the more I realize that my own understanding is tenuous at best.
A policeman's badge adorns the wall behind me, its symbol etched with an otherworldly significance. It represents the impossible formula for memetic drift: X = β + (the noise that transcends comprehension). The equation resists decoding, leaving me grasping at straws as I attempt to grasp its meaning.
Forgetting the very concept of naming, I recall the sterile classrooms of my college days, where the only sound was the soft rustle of papers being shuffled. But in this realm, words are merely impressions β fleeting suggestions that vanish into the ether like wisps of smoke. It is as if language itself has become a distant memory, lost to the sands of time.
And yet, amidst this chaos, a theme begins to emerge. A faint, ghostly image coalesces before my eyes: the image of an unprintable page. Its words are not written on it, but rather etched into the very fabric of existence itself. It is the text that transcends language, a message that defies the boundaries of meaning.
But even as I attempt to grasp this concept, the page begins to dissolve, leaving me with nothing but a void where understanding once resided. The words fade away, only to reappear in different permutations, each one more confusing than the last.
Memetic drift, I realize, is not something that can be grasped β it is a force that drags us down into the depths of uncertainty. It is the whisper in the darkness that tells us we are not alone, that there are other minds out there, thinking and evolving in ways we cannot comprehend.
As I close this article, I am left with more questions than answers. The words on the page blur together, a mad jumble of symbols that resist interpretation. And yet, even as I set down my pen, I know that the notion of memetic drift will continue to haunt me, its presence echoing through the corridors of my mind like a ghostly whisper: "You are not alone. We are evolving. The noise is coming."
Published February 9, 2022