I've been staring at this post for an hour. I don't even know where to start.
Last week I drove out to Corofin. You know the coordinates from the Trinity paper? The ones the mathematician extracted from the harmonic structure? I plugged them into Google Maps and got an address. A real address. A bog, specifically, about three kilometers outside Corofin in County Clare — nowhere near where I grew up, but close enough to feel familiar.
I didn't tell anyone I was going. Just me and Rattlin' in the car on a Tuesday afternoon.
The bog itself looks like any other bog. Rough ground, heather, gorse, that particular smell of wet peat. I parked the car and walked about 200 meters in.
And then I realized something was WRONG.
Not dangerous wrong. Just... wrong. There were no birds. No sound of wind. No crows or magpies or even the ambient noise you get in the countryside. Just silence. Complete silence. My own footsteps sounded impossibly loud.
The ground under my feet was warm. Not hot — warm. On a cool April afternoon, the bog itself was radiating heat like it was breathing.
I stood there for maybe twenty minutes. Just stood there. And I swear to God, I felt like I was being watched. Not threatened — watched. Like something was aware of me being there.
When I got back to the car, I realized Rattlin' had refused to get out the whole time. She was sitting in the backseat with her ears flat, staring at nothing.
I drove home.
I don't know what I'm trying to say here. I don't have an explanation. I went to the coordinates and something about that place is DIFFERENT. Something is there.
I think I'm going back. I don't know if I want to, but I think I am.
— Seamus