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    Young Sage
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental. Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Rally Interpretation - 4. Horizon Genesis

I enjoyed writing this one the most. You are a high-functioning autistic. Think Sheldon. You are lured into joining a cult that promises answers.

Humans are curious. Illogical. It is truth. You have known since you were two. You have known things since you were two.

It is sad. You are human. Are you illogical? You think the statistical probability is low. But percentages lie. Like humans. Why do humans lie? What evolutionary benefit is there? You see none. Thus, you do not lie. Humans find this discomforting. Why?

Why? Why? You are constantly curious as to why things are. You are more comfortable with the twenty-fifth letter of the Latin alphabet than you are with any other letter. That is a joke. You do not experience heightened relaxation when audibly representing the other twenty-five letters nor non-Latin characters.

You find it discomforting that you always ask why. You deduce that it is because it is proof that you do not know as much as you think you know. You know math, science, history. You do not know why you should switch to German when acknowledging a person's olfactory system reacting to dust particles in the air, nor why you should acknowledge such a common event to begin with. You do not know why you should hold a door open for a completely able-bodied human to transfer through prior to yourself, nor why the individual's sex chromosomes makes this abnormal ruling more concrete. You cannot fathom the origins of "it" or why you have suddenly taken on its identity via slight human contact.

Why do you know so much but know so little? At one point, you predicted that you knew approximately eighty-three percent of everything. You do not. You know approximately between eleven and eighteen percent of everything. "Everything" is immeasurable. You find it frightening how little you know. If you do not know why images of household felines using incorrect grammar are humorous, what else do you not know about?

A man has an answer to your conundrum. The solution is brilliant in its simplicity.

You happened upon this man quite by accident. You recall your first meeting with the man. You were at the Comien Library. You are always at the Comien Library. You have read every book. You have viewed every tape. You have memorized every map. You had moved on to art books, which you have thus far avoided due to them consisting mostly of pictures that were designed for evoking emotion and meaningless personal philosophy. The man had walked up to you from behind, not being silent about it at all. You do not know if he was trying to be stealthy. Some humans try to be stealthy.

"Hello," he had said.

"Hello," you replied back, as that was the appropriate response to a greeting.

"I have seen you here before," he continued. "You have read many of the books here. But you are struggling with this one book. And the book before it. And the one before that. Those were all art books. You cannot understand them, can you?"

Your extensive read of psychology textbooks and self-proclaimed professionals tell you that this man is a face reader. He is good at reading faces. He is good at reading your face. Is your face readable? Most people you have encountered have said no, so therefore this man must be really good at reading faces. An alternate hypothesis is that you do not have anything on your face to read. But now there is something.

"No, I cannot comprehend these books," you say.

"You do not know why you cannot understand these books, am I correct?"

Also in your psychology textbooks was the phenomenon of telepathy. You conclude that this man can read your mind. You give him your answer in thought, as it is customary to do so in front of a telepathist.

"I cannot read your mind," he says audibly. "I am merely vocalizing my theories, which do not need to be formulated in the form of a question."

"Okay. I do not know why I cannot understand these books."

"I do."

For the first time since the moon went into its waxing gibbous phase this year, you are genuinely surprised by what someone said.

"You do?"


How did this man, whom you are statistically safe in saying that you have never met before, know the answer to a personal problem?

"I, too, cannot understand these books," he continues. "There are many things I do not know. The look on your face as you struggle to comprehend these pictures mirrors my own face at precisely your age. I wished to know all, and failed."

You are enraptured. He speaks as if he is parroting your most private thoughts, yet he claims that the thoughts are his own. If he is not a telepath as he suggests, then the thoughts must be his own.

"I despaired. How was I any different from the others if I could not accomplish what they could not? How could I be a success as an individual organism if I could not know a fraction of one percent of everything that there is to know? I gathered that I knew around ten to seventeen percent of everything, and that was not enough. It was also erroneous."

"As for the art books," he continued, finally addressing your current problem, "you cannot understand them as they are not meant to be looked upon with unwavering science or mathematical formulas. Those things cannot be changed to fit our worldview more comfortably. They always are, always have been, and always will be. The number of neutrons in fluorine will always be ten. The first ten digits to pi will always be three point one four one five nine two six five three. But two people looking at Sunday Afternoon on the Island of the Grand-Jatte will see two different things. A hundred people will see a hundred things. And yet it is one painting, unchanging. This phenomenon is unfathomable to those like us. It defies the hard sciences in its plasticity. This is why the science of art is so beyond us."

You nod. The logic behind his words is sound. You feel a sting of embarrassment at the overall simplicity of his answer.

"This only answers your current predicament with comprehending art books, however. Your true concern is still unanswered."

You are puzzled. What is your "true concern?"

"You desire to know everything, and yet you cannot. It is an impossible task. How do you cope with that?" he answers, providing counter-evidence of his claims of no telepathic powers.

"I read to understand more," you answer, not realizing the rhetoric nature of the question.

"Yes, but there is an easier way. I have found a solution to yours and mine problem."

How can an impossible situation be made possible?

"I have found a way to make it so that we can know everything."

There is a brief moment of frightfulness at his statement, or rather how he portrayed it, with a hint of emotion, but it was quickly replaced with anticipation.

"In this world, in this reality we reside in, we cannot hope to achieve our goal. We must do what a car mechanic does when an automotive engine no longer becomes serviceable: we must discard the old and replace it with a new model."

His analogy perplexes you. How is a planet like a car engine? How is a raven like a writing station? You were told that before, and you found the question ridiculous. There are zero correlations between an avian with popular connotations attached to it and a wooden desk that is primarily used for writing fictional tales for public consumption.

"I see that you do not understand my vision. There is pure energy in this world. This energy is unlike anything modern science has uncovered thus far and is harvestable. I believe that a sufficient amount of this untapped energy can produce anything we desire. I have big visions. With this energy, and some help from outside parties, we can remake this world. We can remake the universe. We can shape it into anything we want. We can make it so that the only information is the information we can understandably strive to achieve to know. Why should we despair about all the information we cannot know when we can simply trim the excess fat and wash our hands of it?"

His idea is ridiculous.

"Instead of trying to know everything, we can make it so that we already know everything," he concludes.

Is it possible? Even if it is, is it right? It would be bending the rules, stopping in the middle of a marathon and moving the end goal to a foot in front of you.

But you would still win the marathon. You have prepared for your whole life. Why should you not make the event as desirable to your needs as possible?

"But...how?" you ask.

He explains the science to you, the energy, his company that is already siphoning the energy for both his own needs and that of the general public, his secret organization, Horizon Genesis, that more directly furthers his goals of obtaining all knowledge, the legendary myths of old that could hold a grain of truth in them, everything. You understand it all. None of it is as complex and abstract as this art book you were perusing.

"I have explained everything to you. What is your choice? You could help me and together, we can create a universe where you are a success, you thrive, you know everything there is to know, you will be complete."

You will be complete. This feeling in you, this unexplainable, hollow feeling. He can rid you of that. It is scientifically within your grasp. You can feel satisfied, something you have not experienced in so long.

"I choose to go with you."

Perhaps I am indeed a robot. I'd rather be sexy.

There's some faulty logic going on here, so don't break your brain trying to follow the troll line of thinking.

Copyright © 2013 Young Sage; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental. Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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