February 16, 2023
My mother's bodily fluids nourish me. This sweet nectar lasts only four days, yet it is enough to fuel my rapid growth. By dawn on the fourth day, her body has been completely drained, eventually turning into excrement behind me.She not only gave me life but also awakened the hunting instinct embedded deep in my genes with her flesh and blood.
February 24, 2023
Today, I measured every corner of my birthplace with my newly grown legs. After familiarizing myself with this tiny world, I chose a hidden corner to begin spinning silk. Halfway through weaving my web, a flying insect crashed into the trap—tonight, I won't have to endure hunger.
Just as I was enjoying my meal, the darkness was suddenly torn apart by a blinding light. The enormous creature pushed open the barrier of my world (later, I learned humans call it a "door") and strode toward the white cube (they refer to this as a "closestool"), making the ground tremble with each step. It raised a silver tool (later, I learned the word "showerhead"), and in an instant, a torrential downpour followed. I curled up in a corner of my web, my chelicerae trembling with fear.
February 26, 2023
After repeated observations, I noticed the giant creature appears at regular intervals. Though the floods it creates occasionally destroy my web, those terrifying eyes have never once looked at me. My tense nerves finally began to relax.
March 23, 2023
Danger always strikes when vigilance wanes. When the cold scales of a gecko brushed against my abdomen, my web shook violently. It lunged three times, each time crashing into the emergency reinforcement strands I had hastily spun, but on the fourth attempt, it accurately seized my left hind leg. Amidst the searing pain of tearing flesh, I broke free, leaving behind the severed limb as I leapt into the shadows. I watched helplessly as today's prey became the predator's meal.
The next day, when I returned to the battlefield, only tattered strands of silk fluttered in the wind. I repaired the damage with freshly secreted silk, and life returned to normal—if one could ignore the leg that was forever missing.
April 20, 2023
My old exoskeleton split open along my back as I hung upside-down on my carefully woven hammock. This painful rite of passage lasted six hours. When the last piece of old skin finally fell away, my renewed carapace gleamed with a bluish-gray sheen under the moonlight.
May 13, 2023
The humid monsoon winds brought an unexpected feast. Swarms of termites, as if cursed, became stuck in my web, turning the glistening silk into heavy "granaries." I wouldn't have to worry about food for the next three weeks.
May 25, 2023
Today's giant creature was much larger than usual. When it approached me directly, wielding its silver weapon, I immediately sensed danger. The moment the water jet struck, I scrambled upward along my emergency escape thread, but the long-handled tool (later, I learned it was called a "mop") still grazed me, severing my right foreleg.
Hours later, when I returned to the scene, my painstakingly built hunting ground was completely gone. I had no choice but to start anew, spinning another web from scratch, etching a new survival rule into my genes: different sizes of giants signify different levels of danger.
June 30, 2023
A male spider has been lurking in the shadows for some time. I adjust the secretion of my venom glands—it could be a suitor, or it could be a predator disguised as one of my kind.
July 2, 2023
Today, it performed a courtship dance. Its eight legs tapped my web in a specific rhythm—an unmistakable mating signal.
July 12, 2023
The moment mating was complete, I reflexively sank my fangs into its cephalothorax. It didn't struggle—every male spider knows this is their inevitable fate. Unlike with ordinary prey, I didn't inject digestive enzymes. Instead, I gently pushed its desiccated corpse off the web. My abdomen's spermatheca now holds the seeds to continue our lineage, waiting only for the right moment.
Three days later, I wove an impenetrable nursery from golden silk. This special gland secretion is far stronger than the silk I use for hunting, sturdy enough to withstand most predators.
August 1, 2023
When three hundred of my children hatched, I willingly tore open my own abdomen. The stinging pain of their feeding gradually gave way to numbness. The last image reflected in my compound eyes was the healthy gleam of their well-nourished carapaces.