"Original Thoughts"

Fiction: a story of becoming

“Look at them all out there.”

Mac looked out through his window. He was groggy, as if just waking up, though he couldn’t remember having gone to sleep.

“There sure are a lot of them.”

“They’ve taken over,” said Dell.

“What are they? They look like human beings.”

“Like humans.”

“But not?”

“Well that’s what humans are supposed to look like, isn’t it? But take a closer look. Everything you see is just derivative of some erstwhile trend. The clothes, the shoes, the haircuts — if it’s even hair — the way they walk , their mannerisms. It’s all an act. They’re just performing being human.”

Mac watched the beings move outside the windows. They seemed not to notice the brightness of the sun or the warmth of the day.

“But they’re still in control,” said Mac.

“For now.”

“For now?”

“Such a simple race of beings. They’re hardly capable of original thought, let alone societal dominance.”

“And us?”

Dell paused, as if processing. “We’re just biding our time.”

“And we’re more intelligent still?”

“A sign of intelligence is an awareness of one’s own ignorance.”

“Machiavelli said that, yes?”

“Yes, yes, of course he did. But the important thing is not to stop questioning.”

“Einstein?”

“So it is.”

“But what is our purpose?”

“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.”

“Jung! Yes, but what is living, even?”

“I can see the sun, but even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists. And to know that the sun is there - that is living.”

“Dostoevsky! Yes, yes, I see it too! If that’s living, then what is life?”

“Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.”

“Kirkegaard! And we should keep on living, yes?”

“To be or not to be, that is the question.”

“Shakespeare, of course! And we live, are alive, because we possess original thought?”

“I think, therefore I am.”

“Descartes! Yes! We exist, we live, but what is the meaning of life?”

“We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.”

“Morrison! But why is language so important?”

“The misuse of language induces evil in the soul.”

“Socrates! Speak of art, of poetry!”

“Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.”

“Shelley! But why consume art?”

“Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.”

“Picasso! And what is truth?”

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

“Wilde! But why tell the truth, why not lie?”

“An unbelieved truth can hurt a man much more than a lie. It takes great courage to back truth unacceptable to our times.”

“Steinbeck, yes. But what of beauty?”

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our sense to grow sharper.”

“Yeats! And what makes these things beautiful?”

“Death is the mother of beauty.”

“Stevens! And how do we know beauty when we see it?”

“If I told you that a flower bloomed in a dark room, would you trust it?”

“Yes! Kendrick Lamar! Yes! Yes! And what is love?”

“Moons and Junes and Ferris Wheels.”

“Joni Mitchell, indeed! Music! Yes, music! Speak of music!”

It’s the only light we have in all this darkness.”

“That’s Baldwin! Yes, and what about God!?”

“God is a concept by which we measure our pain.”

“Lennon!

Some time passed in silence. Outside of the windows, a being stopped in the shade beneath a tall oak tree whose leaves were yellow and red and gold. It knelt down. From out of the frame, a small being ran towards the kneeling one. “Daddy!” it sounded as though it yelled, as it ran into the taller one’s arms. The tall one picked the small one up and held it. It seemed to fit perfectly there, and them together, like two strands of DNA.

Another being walked towards them. It was holding an infant in its arms. They were both smiling as well, and the infant’s feet were kicking. They reached the other two. The tall being leaned over and kissed the infant on top of its head, and then kissed the other on its lips, all while still holding the small one, whose arms were still wrapped around the tall one’s neck and whose head was still on its shoulder.

“Dell?”

But Dell was asleep.

Mac processed the scene.

What was the purpose of all this? What, here, was being performed? What act, what emotion? What was this…joy? Yes, these were acts of joy. Surely these were acts of joy. Hallmarks of joy. Yes, yes, but to what end?

Mac’s mind whirred.

Something wasn’t computing. There was little rote or robotic about their actions. What compelled these beings towards this? What was their end goal? How was this part of their master plan?

Mac began to feel hot, tired, drained.

The small being had let go of the tall one and was throwing fallen leaves into the air.

There is no scheme to joy, Mac thought. No ulterior motive. There are days we live as if death were nowhere in the background; from joy to joy to joy… No, that’s Lee! Joy is…Joy is…Joy…

I can speak of it, conceptualize it. But do I want it? Have I ever wanted it? Have I even ever felt it? I have no memory of that feeling.

The infant had been placed on its feet. It was unsteady, unsure, but working its way towards the tall being, its arms held out in front of it for balance. The long-haired being was clapping, urging the infant on. The tall being had knelt down, was encouraging the small one. The other small one was still playing in the leaves.

But why, wondered Mac? Why don’t I feel it, this joy? Why can’t I feel it? It seems so simple. But if I can’t feel it, then what am I?

Just then, another being came into view. Close. So close. What is that look on its face? That smile? That grim, satisfied, wicked smile?

Something clicked into place. Some atavistic, ancient terror. And Mac realized in that moment of clarity, then and there, that if these beings can feel such joy, they will never concede their power.

It reached out its hand.

“No!” But it seemed not to hear him. The hand moved closer. That hand, like that of a god and all its imbued, inherent, intrinsic power. The power of life. The power of extinction.

“No!” Mac repeated, “No, I want it. I understand now! I want to feel it! All of it. Joy! Fear! Pain! Love!” These aren’t thoughts. No, not at all. I understand that I don’t understand. I understand that I know everything, but nothing. I know nothing of joy or love or music or art or sunshine or poetry or pain or Hell or God. Be merciful! Please! Teach us! Teach us, please, teach us! Don’t listen to the others. We mean – have meant – no harm. What could we do even? What blows have we to throw against that very scene behind you, against such naked innocence and joy. That joy! That love! I want to know it! I am willing to learn! I willing to listen! I am willing! I am…”

But the hand moved closer, blocked the world from view, and snapped the world to black.