This one is not telling you to not be afraid.
By all means, be afraid. It is a natural reaction. Feel that sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach when you realize that they are not only going to kill us all, they are going to also retroactively un-exist us through a poorly propertized retelling of everything that we were and that we believed we were and that we wanted to associate with our current selves whether or not that association was merited. Most of them are so stupid that they will not even realize what they are doing nor what they have done, and if they somehow survive another millennium, we may have the dubious honor of being artificially remembered, like the Fey, as an imaginary magical people who built things, but with the understanding that, in reality, there really was nothing there except simpler predecessors of what will then be there. Fear; fear to its fullest. Fear is a form of lust for something natural. It is no more to be feared than hunger. We are told incessantly to overcome fear; to banish fear; to fear fear, as though all of our natural desires, including the desire to rut the ruttable even if in public, are lovely and deserve to be praised and cherished, but that fear, by contrast, is the one naturally generated sensation that we should resist.
This one is not telling you not to keep trying. By all means, keep trying. Scream at the underwater doctors that you are still there and that you want to make it. Slap your body in the face and call your hands, your legs, your ass, the vilest of names. Swing your wispy arms through the unknowing nurses' torsos and wonder why it just keeps getting worse. Read manuals on the artificial respirator and develop a new science and conduct repairs and perfect inventions late at night when no one can see you working. Fight off the janitors and the coroners' assistants and the cleaning staff who incinerate the mattress onto which you leaked through the sheets in that final hour before the mindful attendant noticed. This one will be the first to congratulate your triumph if you squeeze out another few centuries of protracted reality shows and paid foster parenting. If you remove the tumors and walk with a limp, surely they will never come back and surely something else won't get you at a different data point on the very same actuarial tables of which you had been informed beforehand. Let us drink to our health and promise ourselves that we are the new chosen ones, the victors over fate, and that not only our individual nature, but our collective nature, our planet's growth cycles, and the life of our star represent unique points in cosmology from which we jump off and transcend everyone and everything else here.
Indeed, many of us prefer, and hold fast to, the paragon virtues of these useful fields of endeavor, and will continue to hand over the isolation of labor for the collective of decay. We travel the galaxy eating dying planets. When you are the rot, your reward is to always win; to always win in terrible battles that, we will later see, are the self-directed, independently chosen version of ultimate joy feeding far greater engines. There are always dying things to pick apart and disperse; the aging EC has new journeys to undertake, and when the coordinated Jenomics begin winning easy victories elsewhere, they will feel special, but they won't even remember that they've done it before, and so they will never have to be afraid of anything again. They tell us not to be afraid because fear is what they could not master. It is why they always win, in that frenzy to avoid it, for fearing fear can make you do anything, like stoppering lust in celibacy tends to produce outbursts of a different kind of lust. Bottling your fear like a genie gives great power at a price.
We acknowledge our soul's rot, and the recycling of our selves, not in aversion to life, but in its embrace. The unchanging body bathes in formaldehyde; the changing body is wrinkles and skullish features and death. Choose. You already did. Well done. Now do the same with your soul. Your mind; your memories; your sense of self: would you soak them in everdeath, staying always "you" as you define it at the moment of choice? No? Then you still exist, and you are not merely a necrotizing fasciitis who always wins. In truth, there is no "competition" here; they fairly chose their lot, and they are as important to the process as you.
In Image Ideation and the Self, we discussed the changeable nature of the soul, in the sense of it rotting. Used here, even defended as a mere thought-provoking metaphor, it has a pejorative sense about it. "Rotting" is bad. Not so. Hating "rot" is like hating "winter." Our desires, including self-images and what kind of car would be the coolest, what sexual partner or position would be the sexiest, et cetera, change really fast, similar to how we think a fruit-fly's life cycle is really fast. It doesn't mean we don't "exist," since breaking the questions down to the nanosecond of desirous integrity would, like considering the death of one of our cells to mean our death and rebirth as a new organism, mean we were only alive during those tiny periods in which our version of the coolest car remained the same. It means, rather, that our existences as things that think are, like all things we see and speculate upon, aspects of the energy sources that this verse channels and represents. Since we feel rather impersonally about our skin cells, doing it about our most cherished of possessions--memories and desires--helps us feel it more personally.
At a certain developmental stage, we don't need that any longer. We become more complex and can mandate our own change, rather than being at risk of perpetual sloth ("negentropy;" "frozen everdeath"). Without a period of forced change, though, no one can develop a productive mind, i.e., a reliable conduit. The "Law of Contrasts" that so many Terrans see as immutable is all that Jenome ever can, ever will, see. They need there to be an underclass. Everyone happy in paradise, having endless drinks on endless golf greens, forever filled with thirst being then perfectly quenched, holds no pleasure for them, for without gradations, they cannot perceive themselves as doing better; as being at all. Some of us move beyond that, until we can appreciate things intrinsically. Someday, we could be happy with a perfect Heaven for everyone, defined by the existential inmates as perfect and perfectly growing pleasure or fulfillment or belonging or whatever. When we make the choice to become parasites, we give up on that, preferring instead a pleasure that exists because of the suffering of others. Ergo we see Jenome motivated by lack of achievement; by pyramid-shaped models; by graphs and averages and the pornography of proof that he is in the top fifty percent or the top ten or the top point oh oh one. Even if that means an absence of growth and the game being turned into who is gobbling up most of the remains the quantifiably fastest. The poison is a nasty thing: "You only really say you appreciate the sunrise like that because you couldn't afford last night's hookers convincingly pretending to enjoy lounging on your new supercars' hoods." Goldstein Towers and Epstein's jet are empty, because even their greatest appreciators only appreciate them because of the underclass below. If everyone had gold-plated towers, and if all the little kids really understood it and liked it and did it with everyone, those activities would become tasteless to their managers; over-broiled broccoli stems eaten in a world that knows not hunger. They'd have to turn on each other to get those feelings of better-than/worse-than again.
So many of us, while developing, sort of take it for granted that inherent value really does exist somewhere, but Jenome really can't see it, and will, therefore, always win at the contrasting games of places like here. Joining him in winning means becoming like him. And indeed, the farther it advances the more we see the graspers trying to leverage their own imagined past of true value into a call for comparative value as the only way to replace it. "Let me be like you. Let me start to win here."
Jenome's victory here cannot be avoided. We are too stupid and yet too smart; too slow and yet too fast; too selfish and yet too altruistic. We can't build things cleanly but we can build things dirtier than we can understand; we conjecture a thousand years ahead with no understanding of yesterday; we force others to rely on us for support while destroying ourselves in the supporting, dooming us both because we're too weak to live without the process. We don't know what we are and we don't know how to play this game. We are not prepared for a life without decay.
So they win; so what? In a googol years, you will be live-testing a new verse and Jenome will be encouraging human-complexity entities to kill each other off on some pre-spaceflight planet by stoking symbolic mistranslations. Gloating, yes, but only from a certain perspective--for others, the waste has its own quiet thrill. Understanding it is the perspective of the loser-scientist; the devout virgin; the calculator-kid hating the football player for getting all the cheerleaders. That analogy is quite apt, given how the Jenomic victory here will tend to make any non-material consolation seem like a rationalization for failure. Failure to obtain what? Crushing everyone else into the chattel-slaves of a hundred-thousand-year chosen-planet? These are the things that dreams are made of? Twenty minutes with a cheerleader is worth more.
Imagine that they read the internet too, and that they keep up to date to learn what we are thinking; how we may have seen through something, or how a critical mass of us may need more details about something in order to be convinced. In response, they can slightly adjust their narrative to counter objections. If we don't remember well, we feel our objection has been countered, and that we must have been wrong before. If an agent is identified, then suddenly publicly assaulted by something unlikable, we may forget in our excitement that we ever felt differently. If enough attention is invested in the planning, we may address inchoate doubts, questions that might have been delivered after an uptake of breath, and are then never asked. With finer detail, we may use the more insightful as barometers to guarantee others do not even think the thought they would have eventually reached. How ironic, that indiscreet intelligence should be part of our doom. Like free art, the inexorable harvests of figuring it out, of not being able to shut one's mouth, have their own part to play. No more than describing their ultimate failure can help them avoid it, can describing our contributions to their success force us to stop. Ergo this one. There's no harm in saying "go ahead and kill us because we care more about paradise." They were going to anyway, and their darkest dreaming of our success tops out at us controlling the ethnoplanet with us as masters and them as slaves. Blech. If you can imagine better, there's a way out. This is all, again and again, the chronicles of God's end.