Madness

I did not have a good feeling about this. I was about to visit an old friend of mine. He was a great scientist since I knew him, but had turned mad for quite some time. Come to think about it, he had been mad for 16 years. We did research together, learned together, graduated together... Now he didn't even remember me.

I walked into his room. It was gloomy and pale. There was a portrait of a creature I did not even recognize (a green one). His hands were trembling: He was old, like me. His hair turned all grey and most fell off, visible near his bed. He looked at me, with a special kind of demeanor which I could not easily record. It was a concoction of familiarity and fear, steadfastness and uneasiness. As with everyone whom he met, he told me a story (He would repeat it every time I visited him). I would not call it a story, since it has no beginning, no climax, nor an ending. But I guess it was my job to tell it to you, the reader.

"Everything I listen was not what I want to hear. Everything I spoke was not what I wanted to speak. I am the most unfortunate. You need to agree.

"I looked into the clouds, the skies. I found some beauty there. The clouds hinge towards the sky. It was a turtle, a reptile, a ... Oh! Accursed be it! ... I saw the buildings. There were many buildings. I hate the buildings though. People live in them, work in them, learn in them, and die in them eventually. It was the tombstone of humankind. But there was one building I had known since I was a child.

"The building was hideous. I hated everything associated with it. The white and grey textures, the undecorated walls, the insipid wooden tables and chairs. Even one thought of it makes me want to puke. But things changed when I met ... (He points at the painting) ... It was a dream of yellow, red, green, and white. I saw wild cars chasing each other. Wait! They weren't cars. They are horses. No! They are diamonds! Glittering at all directions.

"They started to say bad things about me. They tell me I am stupid. They tell me I am demented. They describe me with every derogatory adjective, and I did not say anything. They won't listen. They are machines fueled by the giant Generator. The Generator is a nuclear one. It radiates harmful radiation all around its surroundings. I found out that it was so huge that its radiation penetrates through the whole world. It was true. It charred everyone's heart black, rendering nothing but poisonous slimy goo... (He curls himself up)

"The feelings I like lasted short, while the feelings I hate lasted long. I had a whole life behind me to tell. It was mostly of horror, so I would advise you to grab a pillow first: It is going to be nasty.

"They started to persecute me. Everyone alienated me. While I was playing my violin... I remember the song! It was the sonata in G minor by Bach...

"I did not know why I ended up here. The flowers here are pretty though. I like to play with my cat, Cyanide (He pats the pillow beside him like it were his pet). He was a wild one, look out for his claws. Anyway, where was I? Oh here. Meet my friend, CFGB. (He shows me a picture of someone I did not know from under his pillow. I have seen it many times, since he shows it to me every time he sees me) She is the dearest person I have ever met. I actually doubt if she is a person. She... she...

"I looked into the night sky, the stars. I was climbing a hill, a very tall one. I nearly ran out of food and water. Oh look! The stars went brighter and brighter. The sun, the moon, and the stars coexisted. I saw the future and the past. The stars zoomed past me, while the sun was slower. Wait! There were more suns coming up. The moon had a smile. What? What smile? The deceptive one? Ha! I thought I knew that! My grey hair turned black. My strength lost through time was regained. I stood up. Bach's sonata was still playing. I heard a distant cry. Who was that? OH NO! A gaping mouth! Staring eyes! Oscillating nose! It shouted curses unable to be recognized. It spew out acid. It was hydrochloric acid too. Ow! My hands! My legs! My whole body started to unwillingly twitch. The agony. It was unbearable!..."

He twitched in his bed, while the doctor walked in. The doctor gave him a shot, and he stopped twitching, falling tranquilly into his slumber in a matter of seconds.

I left the room and headed back to my laboratory. I saw the flowers. They were yellow, red, green and white. And they were pretty beautiful after all. They looked into my eyes, as if they were singing a poignant melody.

Sometimes I like to stare into flowers. At least flowers don't talk.

Tales of the insignificant

It is quite a fascinating phenomenon how our whole human population, somewhat to the billions, only surround that of a mere few hundreds, or at most, thousands. There are names we all know: From truly talented to somewhat truly talented. Whether their means are simple or complicated, moral or destructive, ambitious or lucky, all of the "celebrities" are granted the gift of recognition. Whatever they say, whatever they do, there would be attention drawn to them, down to the most trivial things of their lives. Accept it: This is how most people on this planet of ours feel important and recognized. This is how people find their purpose to live.

Sometimes it is not the talent that is celebrated. Maybe it is simply the wits and endurance of the shame that is brought to them when put into a high position. Yes. It is shame which prevents most from following their ambitions. After all, if any shame is present in a person, it would bar him from performing the pretentious tricks which allows him to be celebrated without talent. Any reasonably intelligent person would immediately realize how worthless actual intelligence is, and decide to pursue a path to fame without intelligence: Somehow the only path nowadays to even some recognition. We receive information at such a rate that it is impossible to discern from right or wrong. As with how the disused organ is removed via evolution, the ability to distinguish information has been reduced to a trickle.

I cannot exempt myself from those who struggle for fame. In a sense, everyone is doing so. Do you really think anyone would study for no rewards whatsoever? To study and get a decent job is also a form of recognition: A recognition of your efforts and your value in the society. Yet does recognition mean anything? Maybe it resembles "reality", but definitely lacks representation of reality.

That brings us to reality. Is reality valued anymore? Well, evidently it is to some extent: Science has developed throughout the ages. But does science bring us to reality? In fact, it brings us away from reality. It simply provides more ways we can acquaint to "reality": Phones, computers, air conditioners all are products of science, yet they simply diverts us away from the pursuit of reality. Is science destroying itself?

But is "reality" really the only way out? Even the definition of reality is ambiguous, hence the quotation marks. Sometimes, although science discerns reality, it cannot be said that it is "realistic", at least to the macroscopic pragmatic observer. The fact that a uniform shell of charge appears to behave like a point charge to an external reference point is reality, but is not "realistic", at least to those who do not find a use for electromagnetism in their lives.

"Reality" is destructive indeed. "Reality" evicts shame from a person's mind. It values decisions economically instead of emotionally. It has an insatiable appetite, to rip conscience away from any person's heart, leaving only a mechanical heart, which runs only on insipid fuel, the fuel of recognition, only to gain more of that. "Reality" banishes curiosity. It douses the flames of wonder in a person's heart, so he no longer longs for understanding anymore, but only for the fuel that can be reaped from the knowledge, to drive his mechanical heart. And some even puts his effort into extracting fuel from literature, from the sincere works of the ancients. What a tragedy.

I reiterate how I am not exempted from the traits described above. In fact, there is no way to escape "reality". Everyone is part of it, and it continues to intoxicate people to follow itself. It spreads like a plague, from generation to generation, from parent to child, from ages to ages. How insignificant it is, indeed, for me to criticize "reality", and how insignificant it is for you, the reader, to try to escape from "reality". It is fixed. It is scheduled. Humanity has programed its own death.