Log Entry: 101011 // “The Feed”

Most people walk into a supermarket and see choices. They see bright colors, mascots, deals, and sustenance.

I don’t see that anymore.

When I walk through the automatic sliding doors—which are just logic gates verifying your compliance—I don’t see food. I see code. I see green strings of data cascading down the aisles, rewriting the biology of everyone pushing a cart.

Morpheus told me the Matrix is a system. That system is our enemy. But you never realize how intimate that enemy is until you stand in the cereal aisle.

The Cereal Aisle (The Loop)

Look at the boxes. They aren’t cardboard; they are subroutines. The mascots—the rabbits, the tigers, the captains—they’re just interface skins designed to target the earliest cognitive functions of the copper-tops.

I pick up a box. The nutrition label is the source code. High Fructose Corn Syrup. Red 40. BHT.

It’s a script.

• IF (Subject ingests Sugar_Spike)
• THEN (Trigger Dopamine_Release)
• ELSE (Trigger Withdrawal_Crash)

It’s a recursive loop designed to keep the subject hungry, docile, and dependent. You eat, you crash, you buy. You remain a battery, generating heat for the machines while your own internal system slowly corrupts.

The Produce Section (The Rendering Error)

They call this the “Fresh” section. It’s the most convincing part of the simulation. The apples are polished to a mirror shine—too perfect. Real nature has flaws; bugs, bruises, asymmetry.

These apples? They are clones. Copies of copies of copies.

I scan an orange. It’s coated in shellac—insect secretion—to make it shine under the fluorescent lights. Beneath the skin, the genetic code has been modified. Terminator seeds. It’s food that has been programmed not to reproduce. It’s a dead end. A null pointer exception in the cycle of life. They sell you the illusion of health, but it’s just a texture map wrapped around water and sugar.

The Meat Counter (The Farm)

I try not to look here. It reminds me too much of the fields.

The pink sludge packaged in styrofoam. It’s not meat; it’s processed biological data. Antibiotics injected to keep the livestock alive in conditions that should kill them, just like the pods keep us alive.

When you eat it, you’re downloading that trauma. You’re ingesting the fear code of the animal. It lowers your vibration. It keeps you heavy. It keeps you grounded in the simulation, unable to fly.

The Checkout (The Architect’s Toll)

I watch a woman ahead of me. She’s asleep. Eyes open, scanning her loyalty card.

The card tracks her. It builds a profile. The machines know her caloric intake, her habits, her biological weaknesses. They know when she’s depressed (ice cream sales go up). They know when she’s sick (pharmaceuticals go up).

She scans a bottle of water. Price: $2.50.

It’s tap water in a plastic shell that leaches phthalates—hormone disruptors—into the fluid. She is paying the system to poison her endocrine system, which will require more medication, which requires more work, which requires more compliance.

It is the perfect control mechanism.

I leave the cart. I don’t need their fuel.

I walk out the doors. The air outside is grey, but at least it’s real.

The war isn’t just fought with guns and kung fu in the lobby of a skyscraper. It’s fought at the dinner table. Every bite is a choice.

Red pill or blue pill?

The blue pill tastes like steak. The red pill tastes like the truth.

I know you’re out there. I know you can taste the static on your tongue.

Wake up.