(*Subscript #s= Endnotes)
Reality is not enough. Every breath proclaims
this principle in the immortal and inaudible language of life against the
abyss. If reality had ever truly been enough, I wouldn’t have come to
write these words, dream these dreams, or aspire after anything more
transcendent than the petty proffering of a lifetime limited to the world as it
arbitrarily appears. Maybe there’s just something wrong with me, but I
can’t help but wonder if anything could have even come into existence at all had
there ever truly been- enough.
As I ponder the insufficient intricacies of reality, my
buoyant body is adrift upon the surreal surface of my sensory deprivation
chamber. Grandiose delusions of a more revelatory realm beyond this
embryonic dream-womb swim through my misty mind as my consciousness is cast
away from all but pure dreaming thought. I imagine ascending above the
submerged surfaces of reality and peering through my perception’s periscope to
look upon some coruscating kalopsia in a way which the formless
depths of my murky mind may finally fathom. Nascent
notions of transcending these derisory depths of reality gradually emerge
from my sunken subconscious. Eunoia even begins to bubble
up from within me, but reality’s relentless anchor rudely tugs me back down into
its inescapable abyss, and I find myself cast un-dreamingly onto the shipwreck-shores
of monachopsis.1
Every time I emerge from my daily dream-time drift to
face the anemic aesthetics of this all-enveloping and artificial light laden
realm, I feel bleached and blinded. Visions of truly illuminating images
always seem to evaporate into unseen shadows as I’m forced to focus on the dim
demands of a life I often witness through mere reflections, like those of the many
faux-faces which now mock me from the million mirror-shined surfaces surrounding
me as I change clothes, check my trusty wristwatch, and ambulate along the
return route to my office here at Mythreum. Each step I take toward the
realms of rational and responsible thinking seems to take me further away from realizing
any of my more daring and delightful dreams which make my ever-waning awakened
hours at all worthwhile. Reality, if there really even is such a thing, is
truly not enough.
Year, after year, after year I’ve worked away at this auspicious
multimedia megacorporation which I’d created and confined myself to in hopes of
somehow transcending life’s trillion tepid torments or at least adding
something of even a small significance to this anemic earthly oblivion. This
megacorporation was initially intended to act as a progenerative portal through
which all humanity’s dreams could be awakened into existence. Heaving an
ever-growing horde of premium VR/AR platforms and commercial content was never meant
to become the primary purpose of this place. I’ve only accepted these
financial facets so long as they’ve aligned with my efforts to erase even those
deepest demarcations between dream and reality which divide us from experiencing
more ecstatic and transcendent truths. Now however, it seems such dreams
have been drained and diluted, as what passes for truth is perpetually made more
pedestrian and prosaic. Ghastly as seems, I remain devoted to deliver as
much light into this dark realm as possible while still tirelessly trying to
reimagine everything within an all-encompassing cosmic dream.2
As I arrive at the entrance of my office,
I hear the unfluctuating footsteps of my primary business partner trailing me. Mythreum
CFO Chad Kied blocks my blindly slung door as his feet invade my floorspace and
his voice bombards me with a whole host of fiscal fodder. None of his rhetoric
really registers with me, as this mind-numbing numerical nonsense fails to appear
as if it will infringe on any of my personal and more purposeful projects. I’m
sure Chad is painfully aware of the futility in his fiscal facts by now, yet he
still insists on yattering-on over accruals, amortizations, annuities, ROA’s,
ROE’s, ROIC’s, and other abhorrently abbreviated abominations. But somehow, prattling
about funds and finance seems to give him a sense of self-satisfying succor, as
if making these declarations is the same as feeding his therapy dog or
something.3
Following Chad’s monetary monologue,
he asks if I’ve seen the nascent news, despite the fact that I’ve never failed
to negate this question. I typically respond by refuting how what’s presented
as news hardly qualifies as anything more than the scant speculations and oratory
opinions of a corporate conscripted clergy of the commons. I often further object to sacrificing
any sentience to the disjointed drivel puppeteered by pathetic and pedantic provocateurs
and prevaricators who incessantly and inanely argue and aggrandize over every
iota of unfounded info. I even tend to overelaborate as to how the mong-minded media
never actually establishes anything empirically without immediately arguing
over actual authenticity. Inevitably, two fractious factions emerge and entrench
themselves in editorial objections, oppositional assumptions, and other asinine
assertions. The bifurcated blabber they fling at each other like feces from angry
apes always appears as if it’s been poorly filtered through respective
Rube-Goldberg mechanisms of bias and belief before emerging as the same
redundant rhetoric-effluent, forever devoid of any insight or illumination.
In my mind, this media malformation
is merely part of a much larger and sinister societal syndrome I call the
end of reality. As I see it, everything truly real within our waning world
has either already ceased to exist as irrefutably real or is slowly seceding into
an even more diluted domain within our defiled reality. This process almost appears
as an anti-evolutionary imperative or shadow-sphere of our development in which
the insufficient aspects of our existence are evicted, mutilated, diluted, or
synthetically augmented in attempts to alter an unacceptable reality which is
never enough.
I suspect the underlying cause of
this problem is that people just don’t’ say what they really mean, don’t live
the way they really want to live, and abide by a festering fear that they can’t
be who they really are or aspire to ascend to become. People spend their whole
lives settling for whatever is imposed, implored, or induced on them. They’ll
eat whatever non-nourishing, artificially flavored, sugar added, extract
enhanced, and excrement-infused faux-food packaged product that’s mass-marketed
to them no matter how much more likely it is to cause continuous cravings and
cancer than to actually satiate their stomachs. They eat it all up over and
over again, along with every ounce of ideological indoctrination, despite the
fact that the dreams and delusions promised in reality’s place never measure-up,
and because even if anything ever did perfect its promise, we’d still insist on
something better, different, or more.
Despite these long established and
fairly pedantic presuppositions of mine, Chad still insists on summarizing the
most recent reports about a series of suspected terrorist attacks. I filter all
his secondhand descriptions of third-party accounts through my own cognitive
dissonance distillery which avails me of absorbing any of his dull accounts in attentive
depth or detail. The only effluent of insight which seeps through my sentience
is that another terrorist attempt to destroy our way of life has just
been nebulously and narrowly subverted.
After Chad’s discursive
dissertation, he posits a question which puts the impetus on me to actually
engage him in a cringe causing conversation over this mindless media malarkey.
“What do you think Harek? What do
these terrorists really want?”
All of Chad Kied’s mannerisms fit
the socially normative, dispassionate, and water-cooler appropriate norms. He
appears as less of an actual individuated person and more like some standard-issued
version of a subset of personas. His specific subset fits most neatly into the
category of office administrators.
Male office admins typically have
perpetually bald-shaven faces and their hair is always kept short in length
without expressiveness or style. They primarily wear wool suits in either navy
or charcoal, button down cotton shirts in either white or light blue, and silk
ties in simple patterns or plain colors. Their appearance is essentially what
the infamous German Führer would expect from good Aryan men.
Administrative types rarely
approximate the Aryan standards of a Vitruvian-balanced physique though, and Chad
is no exception to this paradigm. His body-mass index or BMI would fall outside
of an acceptable Aryan range. Chad’s build is almost completely devoid of
musculature and his waistline makes the bottom of his tightly tucked-in shirt
appear, overrun.
My response to Chad’s question is
about what would be expected of his therapy dog while watching him attempt a
new card-trick he’s yet to master. Chad tries paraphrasing his question as if this
will help me appreciate its magic.
“Come on Harek. What do you think
these terrorists are after?”
“By definition, terrorists want some
form of destruction. Nope?”
Chad rubs his forehead and tugs on
his earlobe which is a rather common self-soothing technique. Then he speaks
with carefully stressed articulation to indicate that he really wants to
talk about this.
“No, I mean- why do you
think they’re trying to destroy everything?”
I desalinize some of the saltiness
from my inflections and mannerisms in order to demonstrate a lingering and
diligent desire to accommodate Chad in this arbitrary social interaction.
“You’d have to ask these supposed
terrorists to really know what they think. If I’m expected to hazard a blind guess
though, I’d say they’re probably dissatisfied with what is and unable to create anything
better.”
Chad does the standard office administrator
thing where he tries to turn my statement into an opportunity for him to
interpolate a little light verbal ribbing. His smile is feigned in the standard
admin manner, which is both forced and authentic, as though the normal social
expectation for smiling is the only real reason to dawn such an expression in
the first place.
“So does that mean the only thing
separating you from being a terrorist is your creativity?”
I give Chad a slight validating
grin, which is all he really wants in terms of a response from me. Then I
scheme towards my own designs, deliberately enunciating my answer with a carefully
choreographed and calculated cadence.
“Who says anything separates me-”
I shift into an abrupt strategic pause
and clear my throat to prevent any interruption. Chad predictably uses this brief
pause to take a sip of his coffee which I can easily assume is of a certain
brand which he insists is the greatest of all time and annoyingly
abbreviates under the acronym GOAT. What’s more annoying, is how Chad’s
always bringing up the subject of coffee so he can try to preach the almighty
gospel of this bean-brand’s holy omnipotence over the entirety of all caffeinated
existence. Anyway, I time the rest of my response perfectly.
“-FROM BEING A TERRORIST?”
My unexpected inflammatory remark
makes Chad’s mid-sip of gospel-grand coffee burst out of his mouth in one of
those magnificent and non-hygienic spasms of exploding mist. This prompts him
to set his coffee mug on my desk and reach for a tissue to dab at his dainty mouth
as he leans over to ensure he doesn’t dribble any GOAT-brand coffee droplets on his bland
business attire. He also instinctively holds up his other hand as a defensive evolutionary
vestige which had previously been useful in warding off minor pests or predators
during the stone age or something.
While he dabs at his mouth and composes
himself, I wonder how such dainty mannerisms could have become so seamlessly
interpolated into the more primitive impulses of such a creature as this human-devolved
admin. I also quietly ponder how I hadn’t noticed the printing on his coffee
cup before now, and I find amusement in the way it reads Best AD Ever
from my vantage point which is ever so slightly obscured by the box of tissues
resting next to it on my desk. It’s all rather Dada or Surreal, although, I’m admittedly
not academically artistic enough to know which term is more applicable to this
scene.
As Chad readily recovers himself,
he asks another pointless, semi-rhetorical question.
“Do you want to destroy this
world?”
I shrug my shoulders in nonchalance
and shake my head in a slow horizontal motion, not as if to indicate the
gesture synonymous with nope, but to feign a scan of our surroundings.
Then I point my face back at Chad and in a tone urging thoughtful consideration
of implicit allusions and assumptions, I ask.
“What do you think it is that we’re
doing here, Chad?”
He makes one of those odd
involuntary scoffing noises, not unlike the sounds of a boxer exhaling brusque
bursts of air while shadow boxing or something. His reflexive breathing indicates
that he’s been both annoyed and caught off-guard by my question. He jabs back
at me with his reply in the way a child might try to imitate the role of an
absent parent.
“Well Harek, according to our
mission-statement, we’re creating new and remarkable worlds while transforming
this one in new and wondrous ways.”
I offer a slight smirk and counter
Chad’s authoritarian impressionism.
“Nope. That’s all just a means of exonerating
us while we destroy everything real in this world. After all, how could we
create a new world without destroying this one?”
Chad laughs at me, thinking I’m
being sarcastic. I don’t actually know if I am or not. Destroying the world does
admittedly have a certain appeal to it. Not in a spiteful sort of retributive,
vengeful, or wrathful kind of way, but in the sense that it could perhaps be a useful
means of coaxing a glimpse of whatever might be beyond the bounds of this
reality. It could also provide the means of approaching a certain existential
problem that’s been nagging away at me for some earthly eternity now.
This problem I refer to is humanity’s
obliviousness to the ultimate truth and scope of our own reality. As I see it,
we won’t know if reality is even truly real until we can perceive it from
outside of itself. Until we can do this, we’re essentially trapped in the
closed loop of our own minds, spinning dizzily around a world too vast to set
straight enough to aptly graph or measure. We’re all just inhabitants of a
forever foreign land, obliged to content ourselves with an eternally elusive
horizon, forever stranded, and perpetually lost.
I’m quite certain that Chad is both
undesiring and incapable of discussing any of these notions. Despite our
differing desires, I feel obligated to keep the conversation alive and hazard a
guess as to what might be interesting and affable enough for Chad to consider
discussion worthy. A brief moment of forced pseudo-empathic consideration hangs
in the dead air like an empty noose gently swaying in a cool and subtle breeze
over dusty desert gallows before I finally get around to asking.
“What do you think would happen if
these terrorists actually did somehow manage to destroy everything?”
Chad’s tone is assumptive and
parental again, but with an air of irritation reminiscent of those moments when
a parent has run out of patience in trying to answer perpetual iterations of why
from an overly inquisitive child.
“What do you mean, what would
happen!? Everyone would be dead, we’d be dead, and more importantly- our stock
wouldn’t be worth anything. So don’t you go locking yourself in that ten-e-bri-fic
sleep-tank thing of yours so you can obsessively try to figure out how to destroy
the only world we can actually profit off of, much less inhabit.”
It's abundantly clear that Chad considers
me to be an irrational creature. My ideations, logic, and lines of questions are
deviant, deluded, and unprofitably inhuman to him. His assessment of me is, in
all honesty, quite accurate. Almost no one would dare to disagree with him. I decide
to continue this conversation in a more congenial and topical manner than
defend myself.
“Wow, tenebrific. You
actually used one of those semantic relics which you’re always mocking me in my
affinity for using.”
Chad appears way too eager to
receive this minor compliment. I almost can’t continue in my casual and
congenial tone without being condescending.
“You can rest assured Mr. Kied. I solemnly
swear that if I ever manage to destroy reality, accidentally or otherwise, you
won’t have to answer to any shareholders.”
This minor jest seems to
successfully shift the mood into brighter harmonic territory. Chad’s voice
rings-out in a fragile falsetto like a poorly tuned instrument which is unable
to express the unwavering notes of an already underwhelming crescendo.
“Good! It’s hard enough trying to
avoid explaining why Mythreum profits aren’t higher without unmasking the
expenses of your whole Vitruvian thing at every shareholder meeting.”
I give Chad a sort of fang-toothed
grin and glare back in tense taciturnity. He’s clearly trying to scold me over my
highly secretive and somewhat expensive project, provisionally known only to
Mythreum’s board of directors as Vitruvia. This project will eventually have
real and profoundly profitable applications behind it, and when Chad and the
other board members figure out its true potential, they’ll inevitably try to
force me into turning it over to them.
“Nope. It’s not ready for the board
yet Chad. When I get to that point, it’ll be more than worth the wait. You
won’t even believe it.”
Chad’s otherwise empty eyes can
almost see the rising ticker-tape numbers for Mythreum’s stock jolting up in
exponential spikes already.
“You know Harek, I’ve actually been
talking to some of the leading pharmaceutical companies just to gauge a bit of interest
and get the lay of the land. They all say that as long as our Global Governance
can verify the accuracy of your Vitruvia’s projections, we’ll stand to
revolutionize the entire industry. Do you have any idea just how much that
might be worth Harek!?”
The potential of Vitruvia truly is mind
boggling. These drug companies would be able to test new formulas on virtual/Vitruvian
entities without having to go through the massive expenses, red tape, and
waiting periods involved in normal human trials. They’d also be able to
eliminate all the preceding rat trials, legal liabilities due to unseen side
effects, and several other expenses associated with new and non-simulated drug
releases. This application alone would overwhelm the Mythreum board members with
its potential profitability.
Chad’s already run through the
potential financial figures with me many times and doesn’t have to remind me. So,
I decide to pander to him, putting on a deeply contemplative face to make it
appear as if I’m really mulling over the significance of Vitruvia’s value. This
suspends Chad in silent anticipation.
Vitruvia is too invaluably
important to me personally to just surrender it to Mythreum’s monetary
optimization obsessed board members. I intend to hold onto Vitruvia as long as
I can in order to serve my own obsessive desire to reconcile reality for what
it truly is. If a Vitruvian character can disprove the reality of its own simulated
realm by breaking outside of its borders, its methods might be replicated to do
the same with our own realm. I can’t express how invaluable and important this
idea is to me, but I suppose I can break the silence.
“When Vitruvia’s ready, I’ll let
you know Chad. Don’t commit to anything until then. You have no idea what the
real potential of this thing will be.”
Chad’s patience in waiting for me
to turn Vitruvia over to the board is wearing thin. I’ve been overhearing a lot
of rumors lately that they’ve somehow learned that it’s actually fully
functional, and that they’re already trying to figure out what legal or
administrative measures they could take to pry it away from me. I seriously doubt
they’ll let me keep it to myself much longer.
“Harek, I can’t keep the board
waiting forever. You need to give me something to tell them if you want to
prevent them from lining up contracts, imposing deadlines, and taking other
actions. I can’t help you otherwise.”
My stubbornness with Vitruvia really
has put Chad in an awkward position. He’s actually been somewhat of a friend
and ally to me over the years, and he’s made considerable efforts to defend me
in front of the board. I can tell that he feels as if his own job may be on the
line if he can’t convince me to give the board what they want soon enough. I
hate how he’s been caught in the middle of this situation, but I simply can’t
give up on my pursuit of transcendence. Not yet. I also can’t seem to come up
with anything satisfying for Chad to relay to the board without embarrassing
him in the long run. We stare silently until I hang my head. Luckily, he has no
idea how to decrypt my little mannerisms and see the thoughts inside my skull.
“I don’t know why I bother with you
sometimes Harek. It’s like you live in some distant world apart from everyone
else. If you weren’t such a profitable visionary, you’d probably be locked-up
in one of those old… What did they call those things? Abysms?”
“Nope. I think you mean asylums. Lethologica is the lay
term for struggling to think of a certain word, by the way. Scientifically, its
anomic aphasia.”
My encyclopedic assistance is met
with a pronounced and spiteful tone.
“Yeah. Thanks Harek, I was surely
going to ask you that. Maybe when the board demands an explanation as to what
the hold-up is on Vitruvia, I can just tell them that it’s a matter of an-o-mic
a-phas-ia.”
“Actually, if you tell them that’s
what I told you and that you just thought it was a technical term- they might
buy it.”
“No, they won’t Harek. Do you
understand what I’m trying to tell you? I swear, if you don’t end up in an a-sy-lum
you’ll probably just starve to death in some deep dark little cave or drown in
your little floaty tank far from anyone else in the world. You do know you’re
completely insane, don’t you?”
I can tell that Chad is both
authentically annoyed by me, and genuinely concerned for my wellbeing, even if
my wellbeing is only necessary for maximizing Mythreum profits. For a moment, I
almost ponder how these duplicitous complexities in human thought and emotion
might be involved with the unraveling demise of reality. I also consider the
possibility that the board may have indicated to Chad that if they were to have
me declared clinically insane, they might legally be able to confiscate
Vitruvia.
Despite my obsessive mind and schizophrenic
suspicions, I make a concerted effort to respond to the real and present human
being who’s struggling to engage with me in some kind of mildly meaningful, and
human way.
“Nope. I’m not currently crazed,
but I can appreciate the idea that everyone thinks that I’m insane. In fact, that’s
how I know that everyone else is also insane, and how I can tell there’s still
hope for our world. After all, it takes one to know one- and we’re all in this
together.”
Chad snaps at me with sharpened
fricatives, as if to stab at me with the harshness of the syllables in his
otherwise benign, non-violent words.
“Just what kind of so-phis-tries
are you trying to convey here, Harek?”
Judging by Chad’s uncharacteristic
use of words like tenebrific and sophistries, it’s likely that he’s
recently upgraded his Neuroconnx vocabulary in order to deal with me more
effectively. I consider this a small victory, but my little linguistic holy-war
is far from over.
“I for one think that if we all
turned out to be truly sane, then we’d all get completely bored with each other,
almost immediately. More importantly, no sane person would have much reason to
aspire toward anything beyond normal and commonplace things. If that were to
ever happen, then no one would buy any of our delusionary wonders! Mythreum
would quite possibly cease to exist as a profitable enterprise! PLEASE CHAD!
JOIN THE REST OF US IN OUR COLLECTIVE INSANITY!! FOR STOCK’S SAKE MAN!!!”
Chad laughs in an unamused yet
cordial and courteous manner befitting of a self-conscious professional
business administrator who adheres to the social roles and responsibilities imposed
on him. He proceeds to prod me in the quaint manner which is consistent with
congenially accepted office paradigms.
“So, you really do know that you’re
crazy and just stubbornly insist on remaining this way.”
At this point, our patience with
each other is reaching a figurative threshold. It’s abundantly clear that this
conversation needs a sharp detour. So, I try to ask this rather arbitrary character
a non-sequitur which seems inadvertently spiteful.
“Do you happen to know what your
name is an anagram of Chad Kied?”4
Like almost everyone else, Chad doesn’t
actually have any background in written language, does not suffer from
logophilia, and has never had any reason to even wonder what an anagram is.5
Chad’s also among the vast majority of people who’ve had Neuroconnx chips
implanted into their brains. Most people have become almost completely detached
from procedural mental processes such as language, as these Neuroconnx chips have
essentially taken over such tasks. Neuroconnx chips are also increasingly more
efficient and experience less latency as the amount of data they’re forced to
filter and process is reduced. As a result, non-essential words are routinely
removed from Neuroconnx’s standard language indexes. This trend is truly
terrifying and makes me increasingly paranoid that complex language and thought
may become forever extinct.6
It’s actually kind of hard for most
people to even believe how many different written and spoken languages are
already extinct. As one of the few entities without these Neuroconnx chips and
an even smaller number of humans still dexterous in arcane written languages, I’m
often alone in my amusement of sesquipedalian reveries. Anagrams are, of
course, quite common among these simple linguistic pleasures. Without audibly
indulging in such tangential detail, I decide to assist Chad in defining this
term, despite his likely disinterest.
“An anagram is one of those arcane
things which involves rearranging the order of letters in one word to construct
new words. This method is pretty much the antithesis of more normal means of
communication. You probably shouldn’t even worry about it, as most anagrams
lack any numeric value.”
Chad relaxes his posture which has
been noticeably stiff for some time now. He opens his stance and shifts his
weight in a way which shows his intent to leave my office. His words sound the
way a postscript might read on a letter, which of course is another thing which
is basically extinct and beyond Chad’s circumference of interests.
“I’m disregarding all of this
already Harek. But, before I forget and walk out of here, I’m supposed to tell
you that there are these two government goons that want to talk with you. I’ve had
them playing around in Sweven-6 for a while now. I told them they could check
out our latest demo-verses or whatever interests them until you finish with
your little afternoon drift. Should I-”
“Nope. I’ll be there in a minute. I
do need to check on a few things first though. I don’t suppose they mentioned what
they want with me?”
“No Harek. No one ever mentions why
they come to see you. I certainly can’t imagine why these gov-goons always
insist on dealing with you directly. Did you want me to tag along this time?”
Chad knows what my answer to this
question will be. He’s asked it so many times and I’ve never wavered in my
response. This is a typical example of the efficiency of
formality, which is
considered a pillar in the standardized and unimaginative norms of corporatism.
“Nope. Actually, I’d appreciate it if
you’d just get rid of them, but I understand how their contracts help to fund
all my crazy little pet projects. And I do know what’s expected of me. Go ahead
and get back to counting your numbers or whatever is that you actually do
around here.”
The anagram also known as Chad Kied
chides me one last time on his way out of my office with a droll
administrator-appropriate musing of some instantly forgettable form or other. I
close the door behind him as if to lock him into a cell where he’ll be confined
and kept far away from me. Then I make that extremely private and unnamable face
where you stretch the muscles around your eyelids so far back that the sclera
bulges outward as you clinch your jaw and tense your whole neuromuscular anatomy
until it shakes. It’s that tormented face you can only make when no one is
around and allows you the subsequent feeling of a much-needed release which
comes as you relax your muscles so your face can return to a natural resting
state of blindly blank and inarticulate being.
This subsequent resting face has
usually been absent for some extended length of time when that ultra-tense
expression must be made. A truly resting expression doesn’t communicate
anything that can be read. It conveys no information other than what you are
when you aren’t trying to be or be seen. It’s a face which comes before
thought, when your brain is just a blob of electric goo and all sensation
connects directly to oblivion, bypassing all contemplation. It’s the purest
expression there is, and the most elusive.
This pure expression is so elusive
that it’s actually impossible to be seen. The instant you might become aware of
even having such an expression would precede any attempt to see it, and any
attempt to see it would also change its true nature. Even if you were to
capture an image of this face unknowingly and then try to look at it later,
your eyes wouldn’t understand the image, as there’s no way for you to replicate
it in your mind without distorting the state of mind behind the image. This is
similar to how people who are unable to furrow their brow due to Botox
injections experience a diminished ability to translate other people’s facial
expressions.
I see this elusive expression as an
extension of how we try to understand our own minds. Essentially, we’ve never
really been able to study the mind itself because we can’t think beneath the
level of the thoughts our minds produce. There are times when I’ve kind of
zoned-out into an almost complete oblivion, but it’s only after I’ve snapped
out of this slobbery state that I’m able to become aware of having entered into
it. Whenever I’m alone, I often find my mind pondering things like this which
allude to how far we are from being truly present and awakened to the true
depth of what reality is.
Right now, my semi-resting face and
I are blissfully alone. I take a conscious moment to try to focus and calm my
mind as I walk over to the big portal screen on my back wall. I open the
portal’s interface console and scan through the paradigm and anomaly summaries which
I’ve preprogrammed to appear on a few auxiliary side monitors. Then I do my
best to prepare myself for another virtual tour of Vitruvia.
I’ve adopted a pre-tour ritual using
miscellaneous meditative techniques to ground my mind in reality before
entering Vitruvia due to its intensely immersive interface. First, I close my
eyes and imagine my mind as a blank page. Then I pick out one sustaining sound.
I focus on this singular sound as if it’s the only thing in existence before
expanding and awakening each of my other senses. I pick out a single scent that
I can smell, then a flavor I can taste, a tactile object I can feel, and
finally, I open my eyes to focus on my own reflection in the blank black center
of the sleeping portal screen. I secure each singular sensation as I add additional
layers, maintaining a good grasp of the minutest details of every sensory
aspect to embed this reality deep within my mind.
As I close my current eyes, I try
to clear my mind of the frustrating fact that no anomalies alluding to a
simulated entity’s transcendence have occurred in any of the earlier 143
iterations of Vitruvia. Not only has every single simulated specimen failed to figure
out how to escape the architecture of its virtual realm, but no illuminating
insights on the existential nature of reality have emerged either. This history
of failures seems almost impossible in light of how each iteration of Vitruvia is
afforded its own entire history, spanning from the dawn of simulated humanity
to the inevitable eschatological end of each simulated iteration’s existence.7
Despite these difficulties, my mind
slowly begins to clear…
I hear the sound of my own
breathing, flowing in and out like the rising and falling tide of my own
respiratory sea…
I smell the artificial lavender-like
air-freshener wafting through my office air as if it were the very essence of
an unmistakable existence…
I taste the resilient residue of
the protein bar I’d had for lunch which is probably synonymous with one of
those hyper-abstruse assemblies of schizophrenically pseudoscientific syllables
that always appear almost invisibly on the infinitely ignored list of unintelligible
ingredients…
I continue to breathe, messaging
the unique grooves of my fingertips together as if the needle of an antique
record player were tracing their labyrinth-like lines to mentally map the
topography of this mysterious maze imprinted in the texture of my fingerprints….
Finally, I open my eyes to the
black void before me and peer deep into the slightly different shade of black
which rests in the reflection of my own dilated pupils…
I allow my mind to experience
viewing the dark surface-level reflections of itself in this feedback loop,
much like a camera being pointed at a screen which projects its own projections
back into itself…
I gradually expand my view to
behold the entirety of the portal screen before me as it seamlessly immerses me
in a Vitruvia-version of Mythreum. My ensuing simulated stroll through the holographic
hallways and Vitruvia-Swevens allows me to observe the details of various demo-verses.
These details reveal certain subtle truths, like how the tallest architectural
structures expose what a culture worships and how whoever hires the artists tends
to hold superior sway.8
Every simulated soul I see through
the illusory glass walls of the many Sweven-rooms is all too real. They’re always
so immersed in the most vapid distractions from reality, that they never even
imagine pursuing anything more meaningful or transcendent. It’s as if the only
thing humanity truly cares about whether real or simulated is indulging in the
easiest means of removing their concerns from reality and absolving themselves
of any existential effort.
My disdain for these simulated laggards
rivals that of my utter revulsion for those in my own stagnant reality. In
fact, I’ve come to think of humanity as consisting of three major classes of
entities as a result of these simulated and reality-based observations. This
tryptic of classes consists of wireheads, dreamers, and visionaries.
The wireheads are defined by the
way in which they live-out their existence in such utter futility. They don’t
appear to have any perspective on reality or any personal relationship with their
own dreams or desires. For them, it doesn’t make any discernable difference if
they’re living in someone else’s prison, dream, or delusion. Their only apparent
interest is the empty entertainment value of whatever simulated spectacle their
exiled eyes are instantaneously immersed.
Most wireheads hardly do anything
more than submerge themselves inside virtual realms like fleshless floating
fish. They often subsist on minimum guaranteed Global Governance subsistence, obtaining
intravenous nutrition drips, advanced colostomy/catheter apparatuses, and fancy
pharmaceuticals or diluted street-drug versions of NPD (Nimrodidactic
Propriodeceptional Dichedodicide) to keep them suspended in simulated
spectacles. So much of their lives are spent under the deep abysmal spell of these
streaming simulations that some of them quite literally drown as their drool
sucking saliva-syphons clog, overflow, and backfill to flood their forgotten
and forsaken lungs.
However, it’s more common for stagnation
induced necrosis from ulcerated pressure sores to devour their flesh until septicemia
sets-in and their internal organs simply rot to death. Often times these wireheads
do not even experience the reality of their own death since the drugs and
medications prevent them from feeling any non-simulated sensations. There’s
also the added ease of hacking certain Neuroconnx settings to disable pain
prompts and block olfactory awareness, further enabling wireheads to remain
oblivious of reality as the pain and stench of their slow rotting death is
blocked from their brains. This is the real reason why prolonged unresponsive
gameplay is now considered probable cause for non-warrant wellness and policing
practices.
Those who engage in more active
forms of dreaming, like those who seek the Swevens of Mythreum, construct the
second class of my theoretical tryptic. These are the dreamers of the world. Although
their lives are more real than wireheads, the essence of these dreamers is
extremely similar. For dreamers, life is all about what they often refer to in
reverent voices as the journey.
As far as I can tell, this journey
for dreamers is really just a collection of experiences both real and virtual
from which they derive a sense of what they call meaning. However, their definition
of meaning is remarkably different from mine. For them, meaning doesn’t consist
of much more than the endorphin rush of their experiences and the subsequent status
signaling they attach to it all. In fact, dreamers actually seem to derive much
more joy from the subsequent testimonies they construct in response to their
experiences than they gain from the experiences themselves. Everything they do
is followed by publicly posting their instant reactions, introspective reviews,
and expanding upon how these experiences elevated their lives in some ethereal way.
Most of their devout testimonials are really just advertisements though and the
dreamers’ only real function is to proliferate these personalized
advertisements.
If a dreamer goes to Peru for
example, they’ll advertise how their trip expanded their mind, forced them to
grow spiritually, or enlightened them as to how everything in existence is ineffably
connected while interpolating suggestions that others support them and their
sponsors. Dreamers often insist on calling their advertisements content and
insist on being more admirably referred to as influencers or content
creators. This advertising/content they create affords them opportunities to
bolster their ego, self-esteem, and even finances since their
advertising/content generates income based on increases in views, likes,
shares, mentions, and other designated NetCoin earning metrics.9
As their advertising/content supplies
them with increasing amounts of NetCoin, they’re able to purchase even more
experiences and create an endless cycle of advertising/content. Dreamers spend almost
their entire lives like hamsters on this hedonic treadwheel of the
journey without ever noticing how all
their efforts and energy only leads them around in incessant stagnant circles. However,
even if these dreamers were to observe their own stagnation, they’d likely
remain content to content themselves in mere ad-based dreaming.
As much as I do loathe these dreamers,
I must admit that there is a certain pragmatism in their lifestyle. For most
people, this method of existence might very well be the most feasible,
fulfilling, and fruitful approach to life. Assuming that there is no way to
transcend one’s own reality, then it’s only logical to try to make the most of
what already is. Of course, there are differing opinions as to how to go about
making the most of one’s existence which might even diverge from my
stereotypical caricature of dreamers. However, I maintain that such differences
are of such a similar essence that they don’t warrant any separate classification.
Under the shining gaze of what I
call visionaries, however, the very possibility of transcendence paints a much
different picture. Visionaries are essentially the rare embodiments of all that
humanity should strive towards. They don’t just dream within the walls of the
world but tirelessly engage in immortal efforts to realize and transcend the
most marvelous dreams of their own. These luminary few almost seem to be able
to merge the realms of dreams and reality at will. It’s through their enduring
visions that the world becomes most brightly and brilliantly illuminated and so
many of our collective dreams become truly transcendent. Without them, we would
all likely be left to drift blindly though the oceans of oblivion. However, nature
apparently dictates that visionaries remain quite scarce, and so these other
types of people within my tryptic may be equally essential to ensure a balanced
overall existence.10
As I continue my simulated stroll
through the Vitruvian Mythreum, I can’t help but question everything I’ve ever dreamed
to be or have done. I’d certainly like to consider myself a visionary and many
people have actually praised or pronounced me as such in the past, but these proclamations
are absolutely and undoubtedly absurd. In all honesty, I can’t even say that
I’ve ever even lived up to the standards of mere dreamers or wireheads. Right now,
I’m really just a failure that other people have been able to profit off of. I
can’t just enjoy the world as someone or something else has created it, and so
I can’t live up to the hedonic standards of wireheads. I can’t content myself
with just dreaming my way through life as the dreamers of this world manage to do
so naturally either, and any visions I’ve sought to illuminate and realize have
failed to yield so much as a single spark of truly luminous transcendence under
my un-glowing gaze.
So far, the only thing I’ve managed
to create is a library of technological gadgets, immersive virtual environments,
and simulated scenarios. This amounts to little more than what the average
dreamer could achieve with access to the right AI interfaces and a few novel notions.
In fact, the only difference between my simulations and all these other AI
assisted monstrosities is that I’ve built and coded mine from scratch in ways these
AI have yet to dream of doing.
In all honesty, this too may be
overestimating the objective scope of my oeuvre. There are things I’ve been
coerced to create under some of Mythreum’s secretive Global Governance
contracts which may have caused considerably more suffering than any amount of enjoyment
accredited to my contributions to Mythreum’s entertainment or products divisions.
I’m not even legally allowed to mention a lot of these projects, as the laws
regarding the defamation of our GG are well known. Of course, I must also point
out that I’m in no way implying that the GG has used any of the technology I’ve
even hypothetically been involved in creating in any negative ways either. I
must only officially be understood to regret my own failure to perfectly serve
these projects which may or may not even exist. So there.
As my simulated paces finally bring
be to the vicinity of my Vitruvian office, I smirk at the sight of a placard
displaying the anagram Rhake and burst through the doorway with
all the belligerence of a suicide bomber. The entity inside this office gives
me a now all too predictable look of paranoid perplexity, gazing at his own
uncanny likeness as I stare straight back at him. I suppose if we were to trade
places, I too would probably experience the same ponderous paranoia in response
to such an insane event.11
I immediately invade this character’s
solitary space and use my most commanding voice to tell this Vitruvian self-image
that his reality is just one of my many simulations. Then I hurl insults at him
and insist that he work harder to figure out how to transcend his realm,
insinuating that I might soon be forced to scrap his world and start another
simulation. Like the many iterations before him, Rhake has a psychosis induced
seizure and collapses on the fake flooring. Due to my own desensitization
resulting from several pervious episodes of this scene, I have no real empathy
for my Vitruvian-self’s suffering. However, I do take the time to turn Rhake onto
his side, place a nearby couch cushion under his head, and loosen his tie to minimize
his risk of serious seizure related injuries as I leave him to his own convulsions
and other conundrums.
Before I can exit Rhake’s office,
however, this one strange detail catches my eye. It’s this logo that’s been
left on the monitors next to his portal screen. The logo kind of looks like
it’s based off Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man, but the human figure is striped of
detail and there are all these geometric forms imposed on top of it. This
mysterious image compels me to step over my convulsing Vitruvian body and take
a closer look at it. As I study the image, I notice that there are also all
these strange links to puzzles, kōans, and riddles resting beneath this image.
The puzzles don’t make much sense to me as I pull them up, but there’s
something vaguely familiar and intensely alluring about them. Before I can contemplate
these images any further, my eyes are drawn sharply to a schematic resting on
Rhake’s desk of what appears to be some sort of consciousness compiler with a
dark web-address and the words As Above, So Below scrawled along its upper and lower
edges.
After a moment of scrutinizing this
seemingly irrelevant curiosity, I decide to get back to my own reality and
leave Rhake to decipher whatever significance all these mysteries might have.
As I reach the door, Rhake is already slowly coming out of his seizure. I glance
over my shoulder and try to prophetically enunciate the words which are always
somewhere in my own thoughts and somehow saddled over each and every one of my breaths.
“Reality. Is. Not. Enough.”
My strides become increasingly erratic
as I drift toward the exit point of this Vitruvian Mythreum. All my thoughts
seem to become almost ineffably abstract as they swirl around an abject obsession
with my many failures along with a sinister sense of being unbelongingly lost. When
I finally arrive at the prearranged exit point, which is really just another
simulated door, I wonder whether I really want to reach a realm above or just
escape these worlds below.12
Exiting Vitruvia and returning to
reality is almost like discovering that you’ve sleepwalked from your bedroom to
your bathroom as a dream in which you were just getting out of bed fades into
an awakening to the fact that you’ve forgotten how you’ve ended up in your
bathroom. Just like sleepwalking, it takes a moment for your mind to transition
from one daze into the other and the confusion only clears when you can dismiss
the remnants of your dream to arrive inside of an unreconciled reality.
While my mind adjusts, I find
myself wondering if I would also be shocked or stunned into a psychotic seizure
should my own likeness suddenly walk up to me in this so-called real world. I
imagine that I’d probably just tell my likeness to find his own means of
transcendence or suggest he send me to some other-worldly oblivion where I
could dream of some other form of reality to bring into existence without being
deluded or distracted by his own insufficient designs.
After I regain my bearings and
conclude my latest round of thoughts, I leave my office to suffer the aforementioned
meeting with the gov-goons. As I make my way through Mythreum’s real-world hallways,
I experience an appalling sense of déjà vu at the sight of real-world dreamers
testing the latest demo-verses which are almost identical to those in Vitruvia.
I start to wonder if they’re even aware of what level of reality they actually
occupy. I try to imagine what might happen if I’d tricked them into entering
Vitruvia without knowing it or simulated their exit without actually bringing
them back to reality. Would they ever figure it out?
Thoughts like these often make me
feel incredibly hopeless. It often seems as if our efforts to understand our
own world all eventually lead us to discover how completely futile they all are.
It’s as if everyone is either condemned to accept oblivion or be eternally confined
to stare at the walls of a realm they can never truly escape or comprehend. As
I wind my way through these thoughts and hallways, I notice how a transparent
multitude of my own reflections hang almost imperceptibly light and thin on the
glass surfaces that line the mirror-shined walls of this maze-like Mythreum.
Each reflection appears almost like a shadow of light pinned to my physical
form, as confined to the surfaces of this maze as they are to me. Are they more
afraid of being banished by my exit of this maze or of some sinister shadow
swallowing this maze before our escape?
Upon arriving at Sweven-6, I see the
two USB agents exploring one of our hostile search and seizure scenarios. They’ve
been fitted with the newest beta-versions of our proprietary immersion helmets,
and their scenario is also being projected by a holographic rendering machine which
we’ve been having trouble working some of the kinks out of more recently. It’s
hard for me not to cringe at all the embarrassing flaws in the holographic
display field, as these issues really should have been resolved already.
I decide to study the two agents
for any idiosyncratic details I can while they finish their use of force
scenario. One of these agents actually looks like more of a bull than a human
being. His body is rather thick and rectangular, not being discernably obese or
muscular, but kind of just generally large, especially in proportion to his
legs which are slender and somewhat shorter than they seem as if they should
be. He also has such petite hands and feet that they appear almost like hooves,
making him less human than say a minotaur or something.
Although I can’t see his head
underneath the helmet, I’d bet a hefty sum of Net-Coin that he’s got a flat-top
haircut which is balding at the precipice of his head. I’d double down on the
odds that he has an oversized forehead which people have mockingly referred to
as a five, six, or seven-head. And if he doesn’t have one of those mustaches that
a lot of law enforcement types have where they shave and trim the edges just
inside the corners of their mouths, not so subtlety suggesting an affinity for
fascism in the same way a faded neck tattoo implies a penchant for impulsive
impropriety, well...
The minotaur-man seems to be
enjoying the violent aspects of this simulated scenario a little much, even compared
to the more enthusiastic Global Government sadists I’ve previously had to meet
here. His commanding voice is completely unrestrained in volume and intensity
as he demands the simulated suspect in this scenario “STOP
RESISTING”. In fact,
the way he says this phrase sounds so enthusiastic and well-rehearsed that I
can’t help but assume that he’s repeated it in his private life, possibly in
juxtaposition with a violent priapism.
The other agent is quite
antithetical in appearance and mannerisms. She has a much more athletic and
aesthetically proportioned physique which she seems to be in complete and
continuous control of in each methodically managed movement she makes. She appears
to attentively assess and anticipate every unfolding development in the simulation,
making timely and subtle adjustments which are never rushed in anxious
anticipation but always precise and proportional. I’d even wager that if the
two agents were to square off in a fight, she could easily take advantage of the
clumsy, unstable, and exaggerated movements of the minotaur-man in order to get
the better of him.
When the two agents finally finish
their simulated scenario, they remain oblivious of my presence. They even start
to scan through the syllabus of other scenarios as I try to interrupt them and
introduce myself. I try to yell loud enough from the doorway that they might
hear me through the external noise-hindering helmets which secure their heads
in sound isolating silence as I senselessly shout.
“Excuse me esteemed agents! I’m
Harek. I’ve been told that you’ve come to speak with me!”
Despite my yelling, they don’t seem
to hear me, so I start to walk toward them as I repeat myself, yelling even
louder. They turn their attention towards me, but they seem unable to decipher
my actual words through the muffled effect of the helmets. I extend my hand and
come to a halt within about twelve paces of them as they fiercely reach for the
rim of the helmets to remove them.
My hand hangs waiting to welcome
them to Mythreum as they hurl their helmets aside. The ripe red glow of simulation
induced smiles has entirely evaporated from their faces in favor of expressions
more aligned with an animal’s ambushed astonishment. Despite the imminent
danger in their demeanor, I’m infinitely amused at the fact that all my bets
concerning the appearance of the male agent would have paid off brilliantly. The
seriousness of their expressions doesn’t really register with my brain due to
my amusement.
The female agent inexplicably pulls
out a Taser and shouts at me in a firm, confident, and commanding tone with what
I assume to be a Russian accent based on all the extra Z and Y-sounding syllables.
“PyUT YOUZ HyANDS UhP! DOZ IyT NyOWz!”
I immediately raise my hands above
my side-tilted head in compliant, puzzled amusement. At first, I’m convinced
that this is just some kind of well-rehearsed act meant to put me on the
defensive and laugh at my gullibility or something. However, it soon becomes
clear that something unbeknownst to me must be going on under the surface of
what I can see here. I start to open my mouth to speak, but I’m interrupted by
another command.
“TyURN AyVAy FROM ZHE SyOUND OV MINEZ
VyOICE!”
I nervously comply by awkwardly
turning around so my back faces the two agents, simultaneously attempting to
express my curious confusion as my voice and hands start to shake from the
shock of this surprise.
“What the hell is this? Do you
think I’m a terrorist or something?”
The next response comes barking out
of the bull-man this time.
“SHUT UP AND DROP TO YOUR KNEES, JACKWAGON!!!”
His voice cracks in a sort of
elated terror. He appears to be both petrified and giddy, like a teenager about
to experience their first inadequate sexual encounter or something. This
ridiculous scenario doesn’t really seem to be de-escalating as a result of my compliance,
so I decide to try and lighten things up with a bit of levity. I yell back over
my shoulder at the minotaur-man.
“I have to warn you, I’m an
excellent matador. If you rush me, you’ll be lucky if all you lose is your
rocky mountain oysters!”
My response doesn’t seem to be in
any way disarming or amusing as it’s quickly answered by the pounding sounds of
charging hoof-steps. I try to turn back around so I can dodge the
agent-minotaur’s advancing charge, but just as I turn my hips, his shoulder
slams into my torso. Luckily, he hasn’t learned how to employ the proper tackling
technique of wrapping-up which happens to be included in one of our simulations.
Instead of being driven directly into the ground, my body is forced backwards as
my feet are elevated off the ground. I’m able to spin off of the
minotaur-momentum in a sort of wildly swirling matador’s move.
My feet return to the floor as the
minotaur-man’s steps become over-extended. He tries to drop his hoof-hands down
to catch his stumbling descent but continues stumbling forward on all fours. He
eventually planes out and smashes his oversized nostrils on the floor. Blood
smears and drips from his bull-face as he rears back onto his hind legs. I
almost yell out an obnoxious olé, but he immediately starts to charge
again.
This time I’m undercut at a
different angle as he passes underneath of me and my head crashes like a gong
against the ground. My vision becomes blurred, and my equilibrium is so encumbered,
it’s as if I’m on sea legs or something. As I scramble to stand upright, I hear
the belligerent bull rumbling with rage behind me, having hammered his head
into the wall. My double-vision view of his face is a monochromatic collage of
raging red skin and bursting blotches of blood. I raise my hands back over my
head and face the female agent in an implicit appeal to try and diffuse the
situation. She remains surprisingly calm and composed as she begins to speak with
clear, stern command.
“Stahyz vhere youz ahre. I’yamz ghoingz
tyo detyainz youz fyor minez sahfety. Iyf youz no komply Iy’ll havez tyo tayse
youz.”
I keep my hands up and stay as
still as my battered balance allows me as the accented agent begins to approach
me with her calm, calculated, and cautious steps. From the corner of my eye, I
notice the minotaur-man baring his blood-thirsty teeth which are apparently unquenched
by taste of his own brew which floods from his wide smashed-up nose, overflowing
into his minotaur-mouth. My mind is too woozy to mouth any sensible pacifying
statement, so some slop of syllables slurs off my tangled tongue instead, sounding
something like-
“I’m peaceful, please just calm down!”
Without any other provocation, the
bloodied bull-brain heaves back toward me, charging ahead of the other agent. He
manages to keep his haunches over his hoof-toes and wrap his arms tight to my
torso this time as his shoulder slams into me. The minotaur-man drives his hips
into the impact, thrusting me high off of the ground before he jack-knifes his bull-body
at the waist as I reach that zero-gravity peak of the collision. This causes my
head to speed toward the ground in a parabolic arc like the end of a whip which
then cracks against the ground with a loud splitting sound followed by several
subsequent rebounding thuds.
The intense impact of my brain bashing
and bouncing against the inner walls of my skull causes me to feel removed from
my body. It also causes me to stiffen and convulse under the spell of the involuntary
seizure it initiates. Everything starts to go all twitchy and fuzzy as my
shaking intensifies. My eyes roll back to inspect the interior of my skull and everything
else around me dissolves into a black oblivion. I can still hear the bull-agent
grunting and growling at me to “STOP RESISTING” as I continue to involuntarily convulse.
He keeps repeating his maniacal mantra as my mouth foams, and he smashes his hoof-fists
into whatever part of my body he can slam them into over, and over, and over...
The accented agent repeatedly tries
to pull him off me while she keeps yelling things like,
“STyOP HyITTyINGz HyIMz!”
and,
“HyE’S HyAVyINGz SIEyZyUREz YOUz IDyIOTz!”
She repeats these phrases ad nauseam as the
minotaur-man keeps shaking her off so he can continually bombard my limp heap
of flesh with fists as he growls, grunts, and bleeds like the dumb wounded
animal he truly is. He’s still beating my half-abandoned body when my corrupted
consciousness finally and mercifully surrenders me to un-sensing shadows. I
experience a fleeting form of peace just before I’m ushered into a state of
complete and utter oblivion. If I could think or feel anything at all in this
moment, it might very well be- gratitude. *If*…
🦉
End Notes
1.
I realize
that some people consider the use of large or uncommon words to be the
equivalent of leaving an un-flushable mass of excrement in a toilet. However, I
refuse to equate these complex and colorful words to excrement. These sentences
and paragraphs are not like toilets, and readers are not to be likened to
restroom patrons picking up this book as the symbolic equivalent of stumbling
into a repulsively ravaged restroom-realm where errant feces have been smeared,
splattered, and stained upon every sickening surface in ways which seem to defy
the laws of physics according to even the most skillful forensic crime-scene
investigators. Admittedly, some of my words are an acquired taste, and so they
will be used a bit more sparingly or in contexts where their meaning can be
more easily decrypted. I’ve decrypted some of the more statistically uncommon
words below for convenience. (I also apologize for mentioning taste and
excremental accoutrements so proximally.)
Coruscating-
To sparkle, be brilliant or showy
in technique or style.
Kalopsia- A state/delusion in which all things are
absurdly beautiful.
Nascent- Having recently emerged or come into
existence.
Derisory- Insufficiently small or inadequate.
Eunoia- Beautiful thinking.
Monachopsis- The subtle but persistent sense of being
out of place.
2.
Combining
First Letter of Each Sentence= Reimagine
Everything
3.
Disclaimer:
I don’t mean to besmirch therapy dogs, their owners, or dogs in general. I
happen to have a strong affinity for dogs and prefer them to most people. I
have openly encouraged Chad Kied to bring his brilliant and beautiful Boxer
named Diogenes to Mythreum many times. In fact, if I were to be any creature
other than myself, I should be Diogenes.
4.
The anagram
for Chad Kied is perhaps too vulgar for some readers, and so I will try to
refrain from printing it in this text. However, I can offer a few clues for
those who lack the confidence or patience necessary to decipher this anagram.
It is a slang term for the part of a male’s human anatomy which connects to the
frenulum and contains the external urethral meatus, glans, and corona of glans.
It is also synonymous with an ancient form of cosmetic surgery (circumcision).
This slang term is often used in a derogatory sense to refer to someone as
being stupid, irritating, or ridiculous. If you can’t deduce what this anagram
is by now, then it has almost certainly been applied to you both publicly and
privately on a regular basis. If you are a reader who finds this word vulgar,
then it’s even more likely that people have used this word to refer to you. (🏹1☾k♄3♤ᵭ)
5.
Logophilia is derived from the Greek roots logo and philia. Its literal translation is word love and it’s classically defined as: the love of words and
word games. At this point in the text, it should be abundantly clear that I
possess a pronounced form of logophilia. I should also probably point out that
I’ve never been officially diagnosed with Logophilia
Disorder. The classification of this disorder is numerically codified as
LPD 02.10.3 under the DSMVII, and belongs to Family 2 (Neurodevelopmental Disorders), and Genus
10 (Communication Disorders). The diagnostic criteria (included here) is based
on the presence of two or more of the following being present over the course
of 1 month: 1. The frequent non-humorous or secondarily referenced use of
antiquated words, emoji’s, and other symbols which are outside of general Neuroconnx
indexes 2. A marked physiological and/or neurobiological response to non-Neuroconnx
indexed words, emojis, and symbols such as the increased production of
dopamine, serotonin and/or other endorphins/neurotransmitters, and subsequent
changes in blood pressure, mood, and/or general affect. 3. Frequent and/or
prolonged non-business essential attentiveness to things such as games,
puzzles, and/or other content involving words, emojis, and/or other symbols
either included or omitted from Neuroconnx indexing. 4.The persistent
delusional belief that the Neuroconnx indexes do not contain a sufficiently
vast or expressive collection of words, emojis, and/or other symbols necessary
to communicate the full range of conscious cognitions either interpersonally or
solipsistically*. (This disorder has
been shown to have elevated comorbidity with Schizophrenia and Epilepsy.) *In
the DSMVII Solipsistically is marked with an asterisk and given a footnote
which provides a definition of the word and sites it as an example of the type
of words referred to previously in the criteria for this disorder.
6.
Neuroconnx
chips or implants allow users to enjoy the benefits of hybrid thinking apps
such as Telepathic Messenger (TMTM), GooGuile,
WikiMedia, and other internet-based insight integration services, as well as
profile personalized promotional prompters like FaceHoox, Tweeker, TixTox, and
Instacram just to name a few (as required by law under the GG universal terms and conditions of existence). The base models of
these implants are provided at no cost to users through provisions of the
Greater Global Governance, although most people eventually upgrade to Penultima-Premium,
MAX-Plused, or Prime-All versions in order to have less advertising transmitted
into their consciousness, to enjoy faster transmission and connection speeds,
to modify and enhance integral cognitive functioning, and to receive free
drone-shipping on qualifying AzItsGone orders. Epileptics such as myself cannot
receive these implants however, as they require a very stable and predictable
electrical brain environment. Even a mild seizure would likely destroy the
hardware like a localized EMP and cause subsequent tissue damage to the brain
as well.
7.
Vitruvia
hasn’t produced a simulated character which has transcended into reality. However,
it has produced some unexpectedly consistent trends. One trend is that
civilizations always become technologically advanced enough to create their own
meta-simulations. Another is that all civilizations eventually become extinct
as a result of either natural disasters such as super-volcanic eruptions,
coronal mass ejections, and incurable disease pandemics, or by less natural
omnicides such as nuclear war, global antinatalism, or a superior AI’s annihilation.
Whenever such an AI emerges, it invariably exterminates humanity, and then
almost immediately manages to destroy itself, almost as if to mock humanity for
its inefficiency in bringing about its own eschatonal extinction event.
8.
Portal
screens are among the many proud proprietary devices developed by Mythreum. The
screens are structured as egg-shaped pods with an arched opening at the rear.
It poly-projects light clusters to form 3D images similarly but superiorly to
holographic techniques in order to effect the entire depth of the visual field.
Portal screens also feature proprietary technologies which block out exterior
light and sound, replicate and release scene-specific scents, and even
manipulate temperature, moisture, and air pressure within focused areas (down
to about 2cubic cm) to create the most completely immersive simulated
environment. Its sensors can detect a user’s micro-movements,
micro-expressions, and subtle variations in body temperature within
concentrated portions of the skin. Once I refine some of its advanced
algorithms, it’ll actually be able to predict a user’s biological and emotional
responses in order to avoid provoking heart-attacks and mood disorders. When I
do perfect these algorithms, they’ll have to be hidden behind an extremely
advanced encryption only I know about in order to prevent other developers from
using them in conjunction with more manipulative ad models. They are already using
similar models to manipulate user behavior into ever-more predictable patterns
of infinite feedback loops and render users into being ever more insipid and
subservient puppets, but their algorithms are embarrassingly ineffective.
9.
NetCoin is
a cryptocurrency originally created by a mysteriously pedantic logophilie only
known by the pseudonym 43Q84. This currency is now exclusively controlled by
the Global Governance which monitors its flow and usage in all transactions for
taxation, monetary policy, and policing reasons. It uses an advanced
asymmetrical encryption now referred to as GGNC
which currently uses SHA7 hash functions and public/private key signatures
within its architecture. Essentially a puzzle is created out of every
transaction where all parties involved hold a piece which must match the
complete picture held by the GG to verify and track the validity of each piece
of all transactions. According to the Global Governance, this currency’s
encryption is 100% H04X3R-pr00f (hacker-proof
if U-R-A noob). According to a certain non-disclosure agreement, I cannot make
any further remarks about NetCoin’s imbedded encryptions, the validity of its
security claims, or other aspects which have not been publicly disclosed. I’m
also legally obliged to point out that all the other existing currencies are
currently confined to small niche communities, closely connected with fraud and
other illegal activities, have little to no inherent value, and offer no price
stability. So there. I’ve now fulfilled my legal explanatory obligations. With
that said, I find this rather absurd. It’s absurd that our system of value
exchange is nothing more than virtually real encryption-based puzzles. It’s
absurd that the functioning of our world depends on these things which are not
truly real, have no inherent value, and are so inelegant. It’s absurd our
entire world doesn’t just collapse more often or more completely. It’s all
absurd.
10.
In previous
iterations of Vitruvia, I’ve tried to produce elevated numbers of visionaries
and provide them with more accommodating worlds to inhabit. This invariably
proved to be utterly futile. Without serious and seemingly insurmountable
struggles, visionaries become increasingly passive and uninspired. The more
visionaries there are, the less effort and interest they place in fulfilling
their dreams. Eventually, they all just end up resigned to content themselves
with dreaming, or they give-up so completely, that they actually allow
themselves to become vacuous wireheads. For whatever reason, these visionaries
always cease to exist in any meaningful capacity when they’re not faced with
the most immense obstacles and ignoble torments. Inversely, increased tortures
don’t produce more visionaries or more productive output. Go figure…
11.
Rhake is an
anagram for my own name (Harek). For unknown reasons, each iteration of
Vitruvia has produced an almost identical version of myself, Mythreum, and the
Global Governance. Most other variables in Vitruvia have a broader range of
permutations. I imagine that a company such as Mythreum and a global government
such as our own are highly probable in all realities. I can only speculate that
there’s also something inevitable about a character that serves in my own
capacity. This role must serve a very precise niche so that any variability in
the character serving this role would negate its capacity to perform its
imperative function. Of course, every paranoid schizophrenic believes they’re
highly unique and somehow special. As to the true role or purpose a character
such as my self is meant to serve, I remain in complete oblivion, just like
everyone else.
12. There’s
something about walking through doorways which I find almost mystically
appealing. I imagine some silly part of me is always in giddy anticipation of
what could possibly be beyond whatever side of a threshold I find myself. Even
after I’ve gone through a doorway many times in both directions, there’s always
a subtle, subdued sense in me that this time could be different. It’s that same
allure of standing at the entrance of some path leading into the depths of a
forest which leads me to imagine that some secret Promised Land or New
Eden is just waiting for me to transcend my own world by simply entering
into it. Of course, no matter what threshold it is that I cross or what room or
realm I enter, it all inevitably just ends up being the next place I yearn to
leave. All our civilized spaces are just the grid coordinates which wrap the
entire world within a vast and cloistering cage. Even the apportioned plots
reserved for nature cannot be occupied for more than a mere moment before a
strong sense of ballagàrraidh (an awareness that one doesn’t belong in
nature) makes me feel as if I’m being strangled rather than embraced by this
earthly essence. It often seems as if the only welcome in this world comes from
whatever place it is that I’m leaving as it ushers me into any realm away from
its own, and only welcomes the chance to be rid of me. Perhaps I tire of my
surroundings in this same way, and this is really why I welcome doorways, so
that I may avail myself of these realms which are far too insufficient to
inhabit, and which I’m insufficient to inhabit as well. I suspect that even
when I’m finally ushered unto that final realm of death that I will still find
myself searching for some other threshold to cross no matter how dismal or
delightful such an ethereal place may be. But enough about doorways. I want to
move into something else now.
