Briefly: The idea is that there should be some sort of *reliable* (as-in, for *centuries*) means of storing personal data... not based on some subscription-service, nor supplied by some company which may be taken-over (or bankrupt) in a few years... We have reserved space for national parks, and we have a system to protect the constitution during nuclear strike... There's archive.org for saving websites, magazines, and even music. But these are larger societal-things. Individuals are now relying on "The Cloud" as well; photo-albums are an endangered species. So where should we store our memories and history?

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I had plans to do my laundry today. Plans were thwarted, again. Instead, took a nap, to try to forget about the thwarting that's had me in the same clothes for well over a week... (nevermind being responsible for my losing my apartment, and more)... I shoulda known better, because during this nap, instead of forgetting the thwarting, I was inundated by its purpose in a dream... more like a nightmare... or rather a daymare.

That's the problem with my new reality, there are no dreams, only ___mares. Because... they're no longer my own, but obligations, punishments, and/or judgments brought-on by what I can only attribute to being demons.

Today's daymare was at least tolerable... I wasn't being chased-down by Nazis, didn't end up in a concentration-camp, or worse (oy). In fact, it was kinda heartwarming, if, yahknow, I wasn't the subject. Regardless of its potential heartwarmingishness, today's daymare was still fraught with obligation, judgment, and punishment...

"You've forced us to find reason and explanation for everything, all the way down to Op-Amps! The least you could do in return is 'paint the cloud'."

It seems, my subconscious (as allegedly responsible for dreams)--or whatever demon it is that's actually responsible--seems to think that we could have a world filled with Star Trek communicator-badges, with nary an explanation of *how* they work. Someone imagines it, and *bam* a little bit down the line someone has created it, a "black-box" that, if never opened, works purely on *trust*, nary a transistor, nor battery required. Heck, communicator-badges, they're not *black* boxes, they're some sorta metal, like gold. Right? So, anyways, some sorta magic mineral that when pounded into a certain form allows for communication across the skies.

'Cause, really, that's all this world is... a bunch of things built on trust... "Most People" allegedly, know nothing about how cars work, yet drive 'em around every day. "Most People" don't have to imagine the incredible (as in Not Credible, as in Not Plausible) amount of star-alignment necessary to create Cell Phones, nevermind en-masse...  Heck, even one of the leading treatments for cancer is exposure to the energy stored in a rock. As far as they're concerned, most things "Most People" use could just-as-well be powered by Pixie-Dust or magic minerals.

The subconscious-demons are basically saying exactly that. 'Quit asking "why?" and "how?"... you're slowing us all down.'

Fine.

Well, as far as I'm aware, I still have to live with the world I've been thrown into... Both of them. The millions-of-transistors-realm that's been practically the basis for my existance for 30+ years, AND the Pixie-Dust realm, whose demons have been haunting me for a little over a decade.

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I think I understood *what* they meant when they said to "paint the cloud"... And, I guess, in a way, that's what I'm doing right now. And, in a way, that's what "Most People" do these days, throwing up selfies, using social media, etc.

Most of those methods of cloud-paintings are... just not my thing.

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In fact, despite having grown...

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