February 16, 2023
My mother's body fluids are nourishing me. This sweet nectar can only sustain me for four days, but it is enough for me to grow rapidly. At dawn on the fourth day, her body was completely drained, reduced at last to the waste behind me. She not only gave me life but also awakened the hunting instinct deeply embedded in my genes with her own flesh and blood.
February 24, 2023
Today, I used my newborn legs to measure every corner of my birthplace. After familiarizing myself with this tiny world, I chose a hidden crevice to begin spinning silk. Halfway through weaving the web, a fly suddenly crashed into the trap—tonight I would not have to endure hunger.
Just as I was enjoying my prey, darkness was torn apart by a blinding light. A massive being pushed open the barrier of my world (later I learned humans call it a "door") and strode with earth-shaking steps toward a white cube (they call it a "toilet"). It raised a silver instrument (I later learned the word "showerhead"), and in an instant, a torrential rain poured down. I curled in the corner of my web, my chelicerae trembling slightly with fear.
February 26, 2023
After repeated observation, I found that the giant appears in fixed cycles. Though the floods it creates sometimes wash away my web, those terrifying eyes have never looked directly at me. My taut nerves finally began to relax a little.
March 23, 2023
Danger always strikes in moments of ease. When the cold scales of a gecko brushed against my abdomen, the web quivered violently. Three times it struck and was thwarted by my hastily reinforced threads, but on the fourth attack it clamped precisely onto my left hind leg. With searing pain, I tore off the trapped limb and leapt into the shadows, watching helplessly as today's prey became my predator's meal.
The next day, when I returned to the battlefield, only a tattered web fluttered in the wind. With fresh silk I patched the wounds, and life returned to normal—if one ignores the leg that will forever be missing.
April 20, 2023
When my old skin split open along my back, I was hanging upside down on a carefully woven hammock. The painful rite of passage lasted six hours, and when the final fragment of old skin fell away, my renewed exoskeleton gleamed pale gray-blue under the moonlight.
May 13, 2023
The damp monsoon brought an unexpected feast. Swarms of winged termites, as if cursed, stuck to my web, and the crystal silk sagged heavy with "granaries" of food. For the next three weeks, I would not need to worry about hunger.
May 25, 2023
Today, the giant was far larger than usual. When it came straight toward me holding a silver weapon, I instantly sensed danger. As the flood crashed down, I scrambled up my vertical escape thread, but the long-handled tool that followed (I later learned it was called a "mop") struck and tore off my right foreleg.
Hours later, when I returned to the site, the hunting ground I had painstakingly built was gone without a trace. I had no choice but to begin weaving anew, etching a fresh survival law into my genes: different sizes of giants mean different levels of danger.
June 30, 2023
A certain male spider has been pacing in the shadows for some time. I adjusted the secretion from my venom glands—he might be a suitor, or he might be a predator disguised as kin.
July 2, 2023
Today, he performed the courtship dance. Eight legs tapped at specific rhythms against my web—an unmistakable mating signal.
July 12, 2023
The moment mating ended, I reflexively sank my fangs into his cephalothorax. He did not struggle—all male spiders know this is their destined end. I did not inject digestive enzymes as I would with ordinary prey; instead, I gently pushed his shriveled body from the web. My abdomen's spermatheca was already storing the seed that would continue our lineage, waiting for the right moment.
Three days later, I spun an impenetrable nursery chamber with golden silk. This special silk, secreted by unique glands, was tougher than that used for hunting webs and strong enough to withstand most predators.
August 1, 2023
When three hundred children burst from their eggs, I tore open my own abdomen. The stinging sensation of their feeding slowly faded into numbness. The last image my compound eyes reflected was the gleam of healthy shells on my children, shining with vitality from the nourishment they had drawn.