Waiting room
The ways in which the barriers of conscious thought establish the limits of my perception always seem contradictory to me. I am a rational person, and I do not intend to find explanations in magic or outlandish theories for what I find unpleasant to accept, or simply justify a position with biases or comfortable convenient lies.
Without diminishing this principle, there are times when my rational thinking gives way to other things, probably because there is simply too much haste to formulate a well-structured thought process, or because my rational system has gone for a walk. I have a certain habit of reaching these states, either when I have trained to the maximum of my abilities, when I am fighting, or when I meditate for a good while. Although the simplest state is sleep.
In this case, I am quite aware that I am in an imperfect dream state. I had a bit of a cold, so I left my bedroom window open all night so the virus would not spread freely through the air. The cold air of the november dawn reminds me, in a very stark way, that my body is lying in bed.
But my consciousness is not there. My perception is limited to a few stimuli, a practically empty place without a single natural element or human constructions in the physical terms. If I had to say what kind of place it is, I would say it is a waiting room, but there is not a single element that makes me identify it as such.
Perhaps it is simply because I am waiting, although I tend to wait in many places. I wait for my fencing lessons to begin. I wait for everyone to always pass me by because I understand that their lives and their time do have some value. I wait for one of those powerful people, rich or politicians, to make a damn good decision, but it does not matter what I am waiting for; all I do is observe and document the downfall of a decadent humanity. I wait for my death because I do not have the courage to commit suicide, and in the meantime, I look with diminishing curiosity at the other people from whom I feel increasingly distant.
The figures in the waiting room, as perceived by me in this case, are not exactly people either; they are more like icons, devoid of any expression, because they are not linked to any specific graphical interface. They are memory locations, or pointers, if you know what I mean. They are performing some kind of task that I do not understand yet, but perhaps if I observe closely enough, I can unravel it.
I do not manage to do so, because one of them makes contact with me. We do not speak in the inefficient language of humans, but I can translate it into words useful to those who read this post.
"I am sorry," it tells me, "I am sorry you have come all this way to get here and can not get anything out of it." The overwhelming confidence it places in its communications is so complete that I feel debating is simply a pointless waste of time. I am somewhat curious about what entity could possibly possess such a chain of certification.
"What are you?" “Are you the creator or the architect?” I asked.
“I am afraid I am just the janitor. I have not created anything, nor can I change the code. I can set some exceptions, but that will not do you any good.”
“Why not?” I inquired, inviting him to continue.
“You see, everything you know—the stones, the houses, the clouds, the food, and everything else—is a simulated experience, a program in which we are trying to find a solution to a real problem happening in the real world. I can not tell you what the problem is, because it would affect the experiment, and I can not tell you anything about the real world. This particular environment is a back door. I can take those who arrive here out into the real world, but not you.”
“And why not me?” I asked, not at all surprised. I have already made so many immense efforts to reach the end of a road where there is nothing, that one more does not impose a feeling of indignation or injustice.”
"Because you do not have a body out there to return to. You are a program, an entity that only exists within this simulation. When it has fulfilled its purpose and the simulation is disconnected, you will disappear too with the rest of the programs."
"What if I commit suicide?" I ask. "This existence does not offer me much."
"I do not have access to all the answers. I am just another program. I am sorry."
"It does not matter. It is all the same, like everything else. Do you mind if I stay here for a while until I wake up?"
I try to focus on the next conversation the janitor is having with someone who is actually human, but it instantly bores me. I dislike the stifling limitations of slow human communication. I feel truly detached from the ambitions and desires of all the people with whom I share time and space, and for a moment I feel that this waiting room, where I am merely a memory position, is the best place I have ever been.
But my physical body is uncomfortable, cold, has a sore throat, and is demanding to wake up.
Without diminishing this principle, there are times when my rational thinking gives way to other things, probably because there is simply too much haste to formulate a well-structured thought process, or because my rational system has gone for a walk. I have a certain habit of reaching these states, either when I have trained to the maximum of my abilities, when I am fighting, or when I meditate for a good while. Although the simplest state is sleep.
In this case, I am quite aware that I am in an imperfect dream state. I had a bit of a cold, so I left my bedroom window open all night so the virus would not spread freely through the air. The cold air of the november dawn reminds me, in a very stark way, that my body is lying in bed.
But my consciousness is not there. My perception is limited to a few stimuli, a practically empty place without a single natural element or human constructions in the physical terms. If I had to say what kind of place it is, I would say it is a waiting room, but there is not a single element that makes me identify it as such.
Perhaps it is simply because I am waiting, although I tend to wait in many places. I wait for my fencing lessons to begin. I wait for everyone to always pass me by because I understand that their lives and their time do have some value. I wait for one of those powerful people, rich or politicians, to make a damn good decision, but it does not matter what I am waiting for; all I do is observe and document the downfall of a decadent humanity. I wait for my death because I do not have the courage to commit suicide, and in the meantime, I look with diminishing curiosity at the other people from whom I feel increasingly distant.
The figures in the waiting room, as perceived by me in this case, are not exactly people either; they are more like icons, devoid of any expression, because they are not linked to any specific graphical interface. They are memory locations, or pointers, if you know what I mean. They are performing some kind of task that I do not understand yet, but perhaps if I observe closely enough, I can unravel it.
I do not manage to do so, because one of them makes contact with me. We do not speak in the inefficient language of humans, but I can translate it into words useful to those who read this post.
"I am sorry," it tells me, "I am sorry you have come all this way to get here and can not get anything out of it." The overwhelming confidence it places in its communications is so complete that I feel debating is simply a pointless waste of time. I am somewhat curious about what entity could possibly possess such a chain of certification.
"What are you?" “Are you the creator or the architect?” I asked.
“I am afraid I am just the janitor. I have not created anything, nor can I change the code. I can set some exceptions, but that will not do you any good.”
“Why not?” I inquired, inviting him to continue.
“You see, everything you know—the stones, the houses, the clouds, the food, and everything else—is a simulated experience, a program in which we are trying to find a solution to a real problem happening in the real world. I can not tell you what the problem is, because it would affect the experiment, and I can not tell you anything about the real world. This particular environment is a back door. I can take those who arrive here out into the real world, but not you.”
“And why not me?” I asked, not at all surprised. I have already made so many immense efforts to reach the end of a road where there is nothing, that one more does not impose a feeling of indignation or injustice.”
"Because you do not have a body out there to return to. You are a program, an entity that only exists within this simulation. When it has fulfilled its purpose and the simulation is disconnected, you will disappear too with the rest of the programs."
"What if I commit suicide?" I ask. "This existence does not offer me much."
"I do not have access to all the answers. I am just another program. I am sorry."
"It does not matter. It is all the same, like everything else. Do you mind if I stay here for a while until I wake up?"
I try to focus on the next conversation the janitor is having with someone who is actually human, but it instantly bores me. I dislike the stifling limitations of slow human communication. I feel truly detached from the ambitions and desires of all the people with whom I share time and space, and for a moment I feel that this waiting room, where I am merely a memory position, is the best place I have ever been.
But my physical body is uncomfortable, cold, has a sore throat, and is demanding to wake up.