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Rated: E · Fiction · Nonsense · #2313996
Something written instead of the real thing
This brain is lazy. Unwilling to dig in, it slips off and ends up trampled on the footpath. Squelch. Is it the last of the free, the Boltzmann brains, plucked into existence from the void, from the already cold remains of the universe? Non-consensual creations, contemplating. What? Not enough time before they die. At least they aren’t coupled to bodies that age in painful and embarrassing ways. They pop into existence, have nary a thought and disappear again. They do this to satisfy some theory. All the time. Nothing else is accomplished by it.

It’s not the way out, though. No matter that the sign says, commands, Exit. It is scalar and has no orientation. Get out. I would but whereto? The only way is to discover a portal. No, let me put it a different way. The way out is a portal that you, fool, can’t sense. The only thing going for it is that one is guaranteed an exit. It’s all for getting out. The sign is the only truth. Exit. And with it comes the other thing, the realization that, fool, you don’t want to leave. Here you have popped into existence, as you do, and once you’ve worked through your issues and are getting comfortable the truth is shown you, revealed. You will exit. Yes, it could have appeared sooner so you didn’t waste so much effort getting comfortable, unpacking, hanging the curtains, loading the new dishwasher. Why bother if at any time you will be leaving again? Why bother at all? To prove a harebrained theory. This is how it works and you should probably thank them. Imagine there not being a reason for it.

Boltzmann was a smart man which is just as well. The universe could have been filled with the brains of the village idiot. Sometimes, when he has time to contemplate the universe, and there are theories which do supply him with ample time, he can’t help thinking it really is filled with brains of the village idiot. It’s just one dumb thing after the other.

Slippery, this brain of mine. It doesn’t engage with the real, so much easier to slide off, slide into the fantastical. I can write volumes on Boltzmann brains but try to describe a rain squall and off it slides, plops onto the forest floor collecting dead leaves and muck. Volatiles and nail clippings. Newspaper headlines, telephone numbers and beetle skeletons. In a puddle it rests as raindrops soothe and cleanse the deepest folds, the voluptuous ravines, the confusing involutions. That blob of intricately textured jelly now needs a home before the ants smell it and come for dinner at eight. Take the hermit crab’s house, rent it, buy it, invade it, but get that brain a home. Resilience is a feature of its close relative, the Boltzmann mind, not the brain. It needs a cage, locks and burglar bars. Make it feel safe. Dry it off with kitchen towels and place it on the window sill. Keep an eye on it (unattached, disconnected, for now). It needs introspection, first, in the sunny spot with the dust bunnies, the cat hairs.
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