Dis/Located: Chapter 1

[Fake Fang]

The story enclosed within these pages is not one I have any hopes of you believing. In a world where reason reigns supreme, where common sense overrules the sixth, where you can see what’s real and trust your senses to indicate the true nature of the universe, it’s entirely reasonable for you to believe that some fantastic tale of an alternate dimension, a story that you cannot touch, is nonexistent.

 

And yet, there are still things about your world that you don’t understand, that you can’t understand until you dispose of the limitations you’ve put over your own thoughts. I’m not talking about Religion or anything, although given the impossibility of two religions being absolutely right, it’s safe to say that the majority of your beliefs are wrong about something, be it regarding a single word of a single line of a single text that merely refers to the clothes being worn by a random passerby who nodded politely to someone who was the many times removed descendant of someone who had spoken to the friend of someone who’s cousin had spoken to your god indirectly, or be it you being completely and utterly wrong about everything you’ve ever believed, without a single word of truth in all of your belief.

 

Anyways.

 

The limitations I was referring to are far simpler—and more finely grained into the human psyche, I might add—than something as fluid and complex as religion. I refer to things even simpler than the lies of love, or justice, or mercy. I can’t really say for sure what they are, as I don’t know which lies we hold are truly false, but for the sake of making an example, let us take the famous mantra, “I think, therefore I am.” One might believe that thought indicates existence, and while this may be true, this statement is a conditional, and thus it relies on the antecedent. “I think,” is such a basic assumption that it almost feels like folly to doubt it—and yet, can you really say for certain that you think? What if the entire world is frozen at this very moment, without any change happening at all, and while you think that time is passing and that you’re thinking, in reality this is just a lie that is being told to you by your own frozen brain, forever doomed to repeat the same falsehoods for all eternity?

 

Things like that are the limitations we impose on ourselves. Of course, the previous example is a poor one, as even if one isn’t thinking the mere fact that there is a thought implies that a thought exists, thus proving that something exists. Although it would be interesting to try and figure out what the difference is between, “I am,” and, “I am not.” I suppose one could argue that since we are merely a collection of atoms and energy arranged in such a way that we think we’re conscious, and yet in reality we’re just atoms moving according to the laws of physics, and thus something exists—namely, atoms—and yet our perceptions of ourselves, the perception of, “Me,” or anything other than protons and electrons and neutrons for that matter, is just a lie, and, “I,” don’t truly exist.

 

The point I’m trying and failing to get at is that if you can’t even trust a subatomic nuclear particle to behave in the same way every time, you can’t trust your own perception of reality to be accurate.

 

So don’t be too surprised when I say that the world around you is not as it appears.  Even if—no, perhaps I should say especially if—it’s something that defies an aspect of your reality that you find so deeply ingrained into your psyche, so necessary for your continued sanity, something that is most certainly true, mathematically true—you’re going to have to trust me on this one.

 

I find it difficult to find a place to begin with this story (Although perhaps, “Chronicle,” would be a better word for it.) One might naturally assume that this story, like all of those based on real life, has no beginning, in that it could begin with my birth, or the part just before the shit hits the fan, or even looking back on the events after they have happened. However, this is not the case. Most stories that begin like that aren’t worth reading anyways, in my humble opinion. I mean, most parts of a person’s life can be inferred, or summed up rather briefly. Background events can be explained in the same way. It’s the mark of a good story-teller if they can get their audience to realize aspects of the world that weren’t directly explained, major or minor.

 

In my case, however, I can’t tell you when the story started for different reasons. For one thing, the events leading up to the story haven’t happened yet, and likely never will. Despite this, I still maintain the non-fictional status of the story, if only because I’m not making it up—it really happened, at least as far as I’m concerned.

 

For another, the events happened in a rather peculiar sequence—and by, “peculiar,” I mean, “nonexistent,” or possibly, “Disorganized.”  I can’t say for certain the order that things happened, or if it was me that experienced them or someone else. Hell, at this point I can’t even distinguish myself from that, “Someone else,” and am not entirely sure what the word, “myself,” refers to.

 

…Please don’t walk away. I’m not insane, and I’m not part of some collective consciousness or anything.

 

…Well, maybe that’s not true. I assume that I’m not part of some collective consciousness, but how certain are I when I say that? Perhaps I am. Can one truly disprove the, “Brain in a jar,” experiment via logic or one’s senses? And if not, then what’s the difference between a brain in a jar and, say, the collectiveness of heaven, or nirvana, or some alien space gel that ate all sentient life forms? Perhaps I never existed, and the nature of this gel I call reality is in fact a world simulating super-bio-computer, designed by pure chance to make me think I can think?

 

Of course, if this is case, then the logical conclusion is that my very existence is comprised of that of all other sentient minds, thus making everyone a part of me and me a part of everyone, along with everyone else.

 

Maybe I have Hitler in my brain. I guess that would make sense with my theory.

 

 But then, maybe Hitler was just a creation of my brain too? Maybe all of the reality I know of was just a fantasy that bears no resemblance to the real world, if there even is one?

 

…Anyways.

 

I’m not sure if this story has a happy ending or not, although I can say with utmost certainty that the difference between a happy ending and not a happy ending is whether or not the story ends at all. The same can be said for a depressing ending, and a shocking ending, and all other forms of endings, with possibly the exception of a clear one that clarifies all of the issues posed by this story.

 

Whether or not this story ends or not is up to you. I’m not saying that once I’ve told you what happened you’re going to have to go save the world through peace and love or anything, as I don’t believe in those things anyways. What I mean is that you can interpret the ending any way you like. You can pretend that what I’ve said here is all there is to it or you can pretend that there’s some hidden truth out there, some strange and wyrd reason for all of this, that I just left it off at the climax and didn’t bother to explain myself at all. Me, I’m more inclined to agree with the latter, but that’s because the story you’re about to read is describing something already ineffable, and I’m not sure if I have what it takes to tell you everything. To be perfectly frank, I don’t know everything that I want to tell you in the first place, and I’m leaving out a lot of details simply because I was never aware of them. In this way I suppose I could be considered an unreliable narrator, which is ironic given what’s happened.

 

I suppose the best place to begin this story is with one of the possible beginnings. I’m not going to go through and describe each and every possible beginning, as that would be impossible, but I might as well pick a few of the more important ones.

 

It began with nothing…