The following story is based upon a true story. I heard it from a friend who heard it from a friend, who heard it from a friend. (Not sure how accurate this is, and I don't know all the details, so I'm making them up but the basic story is the same)

She met him on a dating app and they went out to dinner. When they met she didn't really like him. After dinner she went home, deciding not to go on another date with him. While she was home she heard a noise. She ignored it, must be her imagination. Then she heard it again, and she lived alone. It sounded like someone grunted. She dashed upstairs and grabbed her landline and dialed 911.

"Dispatch, what's your emergency?"

"I think that there's someone in my house and I live alone. Could you please send someone over immediately?"

"I'm sorry we're really backed up right now. We can be there within 45 minutes to an hour."

"No, no. You don't understand. I think I'm in danger. I'm scared. Could you please just send someone over to check it out?"

"I'm sorry You're going to have to wait."

"Please, please. I don't know what else to do. I'm locked inside, I can't get away." Suddenly she hears a knock at the door. It had been about 5 minutes since she called. The door opened, and she heard a commotion downstairs. There was shouting and running. She screamed, she couldn't help it. She put her hand over her mouth. There was footsteps coming towards her, and the door opened. It was the police.

"We're here mam." She stared at him.

"But, but dispatch told me that you couldn't be here for another hour."

"Here, let me show you something." She stands up. The policeman leads her to her basement, The man who she went on a date with. He had followed her home, and broken in. On a table there were knives spread out

"He is a serial killer that we have been after for quite some time. When you called we figured it out, but look." The landline had been tapped into. He had been planning to kill her, but if the police had said they would be there immediately, he would have left. She looks at the police officer, she was still breathing fast.

"I'm never going to use a dating website again."

Let us begin at the end.

Hutchinson sat restlessly in his chair, the news reporter sitting across from him. Before the reporter could ask a question Hutchinson spoke, "How many times does one have to kill to become a murderer?''

The reporter was taken aback obviously not expecting such a question. Warily she replied, “just once.”

“Just once,” said Hutchinson almost as if he was testing the words himself. “Well, I guess I am a murderer,” Hutchinson murmured.

“and why do you say that?”

Unshed tears framed Hutchinson’s eyes, unwilling to fall. Hutchinson turned towards the reporter and as if on cue, the tears hanging on for dear life fell softly onto his cheek. “Because I’ve killed myself and others so many times,” he said quietly.

*rewind to earlier that day*

Standing on a walkway cloaked, Leader Hutchinson watched people pass. Everyone dressed in black and their necks showing proudly a faint green light from within. The only true color in this world. The sky was always grey never changing, but today’s sky was darker than ever, as it was some type of warning. Life here was like a black and white movie. Even the sun hid in fear that its color would be taken away.

Hutchinson had fine lines creasing his feature, many grey strips of hair determined to take over. And that small crinkle in his eyes gave way to his age. It was time for a change. Hutchinson despised the Change with every fiber in his body. Even though he didn’t know the true year he knew it was time for a Change. The Change was a process that all leaders go through and no matter how much they fought the Change the process was always completed. With every Change, Hutchinson grew more and more tired with the weight of the guilt that threatened to crush him.

A flash of white pulled him from his thoughts. A man had approached him. If only people knew how dangerous he was they wouldn’t even glance his way Hutchinson thought. The man had blindingly white hair and he was young. He would be perfect for the changing Hutchinson thought. The man looked at him concerned, only then Hutchinson realized that he was still lost in thought. Shaking his head he focused on the man, “I’m sorry, I was lost in thought, how may I help you?” Hutchinson said forcing a smile on his face.

The man beamed at him cheerily “ Well I know you are Leader Hutchinson and I was wondering if you could help me with this.” The man points to his neck where usually there is a faint green light, but nothing was there. Hutchinson was less concerned about the light that had gone out and was more concerned that this ma was too trusting. Hutchinson had learned that trusting people too easily was a big mistake. Hutchinson directed his attention to the man, he couldn’t refuse him because he was a leader, and it was his job to lead.

Hutchinson grunted a “Follow me,” underneath his breath. The man followed him with a bounce in his step almost as if he was on a trampoline.

Hutchinson stopped suddenly aware that he never got the man’s name, “Your name?” he asked.

“The name's Erin,” The man replied with a smile.

Hutchinson and Erin continued down the path, as they wandered Erin chattered away, the problem momentarily forgotten by both. Hutchinson’s feet led him unknowingly to the last place he wanted to be. If Hutchinson had been paying attention he would have steered them in a different direction but he was distracted by Erin’s chatter. They had ended up in front of a wooden door, a door that was tainted with blood and bad memories. Before Hutchinson could stop Erin, he had opened the door and was bounding down the stairs. Hutchinson felt conflicted if he went after Erin there was no stopping what was coming next. In the short time, he had known him Hutchinson grew fond of Erin. With a wave of sorrow, Hutchinson followed slowly. At the end of the stairway stood Erin with shock written on his face, with traces of fear. Erin tried to run. Hutchinson caught him easily by the neck and dragged him to a table with straps effortlessly restraining Erin.

The invisible force that urged Hutchinson to complete the Changing was persistent. There was no fighting it because, in the end, the results would still be the same. Grabbing a knife from the top of a rack he slowly approached Erin. It wasn’t until Hutchinson felt the drops of tears roll down his face that he realized he was crying. In all of the years that he’s done this Hutchinson has never cried. The tears flowed like a river when Hutchinson put the knife against Erin’s neck. They flowed so strongly he could barely see clearly. Hutchinson pressed the knife harder into Erin’s skin and a trickle of blood followed. Erin seemed to be doing better than Hutchinson. Erin hadn’t moved when the knife was pressed against his neck. Hutchinson’s salt and pepper hair was slick with sweat as he stared into the eyes of his victim. Erin barely breathed as he stared right back. Forcing himself to look away Hutchinson pushed the knife deeper as Erin’s body grew stiffer. But Erin didn’t move. The only time he moved was when his lifeless body fell backward onto the bed.

Heaving heavily Hutchinson grabbed a port and plugged it into Erin’s blood-covered neck, he plugged the other end into his own neck. The green light in Hutchinson’s neck indicated every memory that someone made was record into the chip connected to the light. Hutchinson downloaded all of his memories, all of his sins onto Erin’s chip their memories became intertwined along with the memories of many more before him. It was the law that as a leader you must carry the burden of every victim’s memories with you. Every memory leading up to the day that you killed them. These memories carried feelings so strong it felt like the weight of the world was upon you. With all these memories that were not his, Hutchinson found himself missing memories that he never made himself, he finds himself missing people that he never met.

At that moment Hutchinson was glad that Erin’s light had gone out, It meant that the last couple of hours weren’t recorded. Hutchinson wanted to forget. He didn’t have time for remorse he had an interview in a short time. He bid his former body well as the rest of the process began.

When Hutchinson woke he strode to the mirror and looked at his new body. His hair was white and blinding, his physic was of a young man in his early 20s. And on his neck was a long scar, that looked freshly healed. When Hutchinson closed his eyes all he saw was blood. He rushed to the sink and scrubbed and scrubbed until his hands were sore and raw. But it did nothing to get rid of the blood that was painted on his hands. Pulling himself together Hutchinson got dressed in all white. Standing in front of the mirror again he looked at himself as he raised his arms,” Here we are again.”

Hutchinson sat restlessly in his chair, The news reporter sitting across from him. Before the reporter could ask a question Hutchinson spoke, "How many times does one have to kill to become a murderer?''

The reporter was taken aback obviously not expecting such a question. Warily she replied, “Just once.”

“Just once,” said Hutchinson almost as if he was testing the words himself. “Well, I guess I am a murderer,” Hutchinson murmured.

“And why do you say that?”

Unshed tears framed Hutchinson’s eyes, unwilling to fall. Hutchinson turned towards the reporter and as if on cue, the tears hanging on for dear life fell softly onto his cheek.

“Because I’ve killed myself and other so many times,” he said quietly. But anger took over his features as he stood slowly. “Things wouldn’t be this way if people weren’t so naive and carefree.” Hutchinson snapped. He looked at the reporter and whispered, “Ask what my problem is.” When the reporter didn’t say anything Hutchinson took out his gun his hands shaking. “Ask me what my problem is!” he bellowed.

“W-what is your p-problem?” the reporter managed to stutter.

“My problem is with people who are too trusting, people like you,” Hutchinson said as he pointed the gun at the reporter. The reporter’s face was etched in pain and shock as blood seeped from their shirt. Hutchinson looked at the lifeless body, a grim smile graced his lips, his hands trembling as he raised his arms. He stared into his victim’s eyes as he pressed the gun to his head, “Here we are again!”

It has been a while since writing a story on Prose, my eyes are not what they used to be and to be honest, just never found inspiration from any of the prompts that suited my writing style.

I suppose this is quite a strange prompt really from Prose, but hey, who am I to criticise?

The best outcome of it is that it has prompted me put finger to qwerty keyboard and write a short story of one of my many escapades in France which from how I see it, should fall into the guidelines of this prompt.

The house we owned in France was edged, land wise by our nearest neighbour, Christian, whose farmhouse was some 3 km’s away. Christian would wave at me and my wife as he passed along the public lane in his trusty old Ford tractor leaving a cloud of black diesel smoke behind him.

One Sunday, we were having lunch alfresco with a couple of French friends Patrick and his wife Blandine. We were about to sample our third bottle of wine each, when Patrick asked if we had heard of the French pass time of cloud spotting, which for those uninitiated in the art form is staring at the clouds and finding shapes that look like objects, people, babies, dogs etc. We told him that we had and that obviously the English had stolen the idea from the French at some point in history. Still staring at the sky, Patrick indicated with his left arm that he had spotted a puppy which we assumed was his contribution and commencement of the game. My wife pointed at another cloud and said look, there’s a tree. I was looking around the sky and frankly couldn’t make a shape of anything. Worm shouted Blandine pointing at the remnants of an aeroplanes exhaust that had passed by earlier that morning. After taking another large gulp of wine I heard Christian’s tractor coming along the lane in our direction. Still scouring the sky, I waved at Christian as he passed without taking my eyes off the sky. The aroma of diesel fumes filled the air before rising into the sky dispersing slightly with the light breeze. Come on Julian shouted Patrick impatiently, the wine’s effect making him slur slightly. With all my might, I scrunched my eyes together and there it was, as clear as day and right above us. Bob Marley I shouted pointing at the shape of the diesel fumes above our head and there are the Wailers to the left of Bob. I couldn’t help but start singing Buffalo Soldier...... It appears I won the game as Blandine quickly changed the subject leaving Patrick nodding his head in agreement at the vision in the sky.

Christian’s tractor had turned at the end of the lane and from the plumes of smoke was heading in our direction, down our driveway. Suddenly, from out of the smokescreen, Christian came bounding over the lawn and kissed all the ladies four times on each cheek in that French custom of greeting and then proceeded to shake mine and Patrick’s hand. Julian said Christian putting his hand on my shoulder and gently coercing me away from the table and the others so he could speak in some privacy.

His Breton dialect was always difficult to interpret and on this occasion was not helped by the garlic snails he had eaten for lunch causing his breath to almost singe the hairs on my ears as he spoke. When he had finished speaking and I had managed to gulp in a garlic free inhalation of his body odour which for a split second was a welcome relief, I noticed that he was staring at me intently, waiting for an answer. I thought for a few seconds and once I had deciphered what I thought he had said, I weighed up the pros and cons of what I had mentally translated from what he had asked.

Cava he asked impatiently? After several moments of thought and in my best guttural French replied Oui! Demain he pressed? Oui, demain matin, tomorrow morning. With a satisfied grin on his face, he shook my hand firmly and left as quickly as he had arrived; his hand waiving his au revoir’s to Patrick, Blandine and my wife.

With another Bob Marley and The Wailers taking shape above our heads, Christian disappeared down the lane.

As I took my place back at the table, an air of anticipation was apparent and the baying crowd before me wanted to know what all the secrecy was about with Christian. As I had been asked to “ferme le bouche” regarding the agreement, I could not reveal what it was I was speaking about with Christian. However, not wishing to ruin the atmosphere of what up until now was a very convivial lunch, I quickly thought of an excuse that fitted in with the body language that everyone had witnessed and said, well Christian is going to cut the field next to our garden the next day and had said that it would not be too much of a chore for him to run our lawn over with his machine while he was there. His only proviso being that I arrange for my wife’s underwear to be on the washing line at the time of cutting as it made rather a boring job that little more interesting. Thankfully, Blandine, Patrick and my wife found the request more than amusing and their laughter passed over the need for further interrogation.

As with all lunches in France, lunch turned into an afternoon session of drinking and well more drinking really and before you know where you are, the evening aperitif hour has arrived, and out comes the kir royale’s and salty nibbles.

The offer of a traditional 5 course French evening meal was declined by Blandine and Patrick as it would “interfere with the natural flow of drinking”. However, this did not stop them requesting the wine list!

Following the conclusion of two bottles of Saint - Emilion Grande Cru, and a bottle of Premier Cru Champagne to liven up the liver, Patrick wandered off to check the functioning of our fosse septic by way of using our loo whilst my wife and I hastily carried out a stock check on our fast depreciating stock of wine. After ten minutes and several “raising of glasses”, I noticed through the one remaining open eye that Patrick had not returned. Fearing he had collapsed or fallen asleep on the loo, I unsteadily traced his steps to find that he was not in the loo! I noticed our bedroom door was open and fully expected to find him spread eagled on the bed, but no. I saw the sliding glass doors which led to the patio and the garden were open and I could hear faint singing in the distance. When I reached the end of the patio, I could see Patrick hanging washing on the washing line in the garden.

I shouted to him and asked what he was doing. He replied but I could not understand what he was slurring. As I approached him, I could see he was hanging underwear on the washing line. Pour demain Julian, pour demain he slurred. With both of us unable to stand, more because of us laughing than through the effects of the drink, we both sat on the grass to recover. After confirming that we were not “pompette”, we both managed to stand on all seven legs, we decided to leave the other non conforming legs where they were and made our way back to the house.

With the effects of the day’s drinking waning, yes, it is possible to drink yourself sober ish, Blandine and Patrick decided they should make their way home which was a relief because we were down to our last bottle of alcohol which as it turned out was cooking sherry, but I doubt anyone would have noticed anyway!

The following morning I was up and dressed with the lark. Bolstered by several strong cups of coffee and my pacemaker beating at double time due to the caffeine intake, I loaded up my van and made my way to Christian’s house.

On arrival I was met by Christian who was holding two glasses of red wine which is another French custom in the morning. After handing me a glass, we chinked the glasses together and downed the rather rough cloudy looking liquid with one body dithering gulp. Chateau du Boite Julian juste le Chateau du Boite! I must admit that cheap wine from a box is not my first choice of morning drink but the warmth I felt as it settled inside my stomach eased my slightly fuzzy head and changed my opinion of wine in a box somewhat!

Alors said Christian leading me over to the rear of the barn. He stopped suddenly and stood open armed as if presenting someone. Along the edge of a dilapidated old fence was a mound of old stonework and an attempt at a concrete footing obviously thrown down during the aperitif hour with not a spirit level in sight. Ici une mure, he continued, il commence ici et fini ici. He said pointing down the line, une metre cinq haute ok? Thank the lord he spoke in French and not Breton! So he wants a wall, to border his land at this point and to end at the bottom of his yard some 40 meters away and one point five meters high I thought to myself. Cava Julian, vous et comprenez said Christian unsure if I understood what he wanted. Oui Christain oui je comprende. I asked if he was still having trouble with his neighbour and he spat on the floor, stamping the guttural sticky mess into the mud, voisans, merde! Surely not I said in reply, but the hatred in his eyes said it all. He was absolute in his feelings, his neighbour was shit!

Over the next week I merrily plodded along, building the wall to the strict instructions as laid down by Christian. The neighbour of Christian with whom Christian was in dispute, came to look at the work whilst Christian was away from the farm on his tractor. He could spot the plume of smoke in the distance indicting Christian’s position at any point ensuring his safety. Michel, the neighbour who was friendly with me was laughing and rubbing his chin as he looked at the wall. Tres bien Julian, vous etes une macon du premiere classe. I thanked him for his comments and asked why he was smiling. He just shrugged his shoulders and smiled again, Vite, vite he said before disappearing to the safety of his land border. Blimey, I’m going as fast as I can I thought.

I must admit, in those days my eyes were a natural spirit level so the need to use one was only to confirm what I already knew and that was the wall was as straight and upright as it could be. These day’s unfortunately, the eyes are not that sharp!

On completion of the wall, Christian insisted I celebrate with a bottle of homemade cider or Domestos as I called it. It was as cloudy as a pea souper in London in the 1960’s. Michel, the neighbour had kindly waited for me to complete the works before opening the pig shed doors, something I was grateful to him for. However, the stench hit us like a barn door slamming in your face and the aroma coupled with the homemade cider, strangely made the whole bouquet more pleasant, even palatable! We drank to the weather, and each meter of stonework that had been laid. He even christened the wall by spitting a fizzy cider laden mouthful of spit which caused the spittle to froth up as it hit the stonework. An empty cider bottle followed it and smashed against the top course of stones. Time to go I said to Christian and packed up my tools and made my way home.

The next day I was woken by four cords of oak logs sliding from Christian’s trailer onto our car parking area. I heard a thud; something had hit the glass sliding doors of the bedroom. I pretended to be asleep for fear of finding Christian standing outside the doors with 2 glasses of Chateau du Boite or worse still wearing my wife’s underwear on his head. I waited until I had heard the familiar sound of a tractor engine start then its “put putting ”diminish as he drove into the distance.

I got out of bed and pulled the curtain to one side to see what had hit the glass doors, and there on the ground was a bottle of homemade cider and a dead rabbit its eyes still open as if gazing across the garden. Payday had surely arrived. I looked at the mound of oak sitting in our car park but could not face the toil it would take to stack it all in the woodshed.

Three days later, two blisters and several splinters later, I had almost finished stacking the wood when a Renault 4 skidded to a halt in our driveway. The door flew open and Christian jumped out waving a letter and swearing in both Breton and French and sometimes in Brench when he mixed up his dialects! Julian, Julian what have you done he shouted angrily! I took the letter from him; it was a letter from a Notaire including a map of the land registry stating a wall had been erected in such a way that the boundary had been breached between Christian’s land and his troublesome neighbours land. We climbed into the Renault 4 and Christian drove us at some speed and it has to be said with very little regard to other road users. We screeched to a halt near the offending wall which was a relief as I thought we were going to hit it! I checked everything regarding the wall’s construction and it was to the exact specification that Christian had demanded. Christian said that the wall breached the boundary at approximately 30 meters leaving 10 meters on his shit neighbours land. I looked at the concrete footings which Christian had laid himself and the wall fell well within the footings. I pointed out this minor detail to him and alarm spread across his face. What I witnessed next was both bizarre to say the least and most alarming. Christian’s face blushed to a bright shade of purple as his blood pressure mounted within the confines of his skull. The purple darkened to damson, I was fully expecting him to turn into “The Hulk” at any second. He then proceeded to punch himself in the face repeatedly whilst jigging about like a boxer in the ring. Jab followed uppercut followed by a haymaker, the sheer force of which, spread his own nose across his face and he went to the floor like une sac du pommes de terre. He was scrambling to get up as if in his mind he was trying to beat the count of ten by some imaginary referee. Not wishing to interfere, I was leaning against my masterpiece of a wall watching in sheer amazement and have to admit, amusement at Christian’s actions. Christian lay flat on his back, his attempts to stand up diminished as exhaustion set in. His eyes were closed and blood ran from the side of his nose down his cheek and into the orifice of his ear. He was motionless now, so I called out his name, but there was no response. I went over and shook him, but he remained motionless. By the edge of one of his barns I could see a bucket of rainwater and like in all good films emptied its contents over his head. The black mud in the bottom of the bucket followed the clear rainwater leaving Christian’s head covered in rotting leaves. A not too rotted oak tree leaf was expelled from Christian’s mouth as he coughed and spluttered back to life, wiping his eyes clear of the stinking black sludge. Merde he shouted as he scrambled to his feet and ran in double quick time to the outside tap.

Fully cleansed, with one swollen eye and lips to match, we walked back to the offending wall. We inspected the length of it and came across a pile of yellow plastic pegs approximately 10 meters from the end of the wall. I asked Christian what the pegs were and he shrugged and said that they were old land markings someone had put in the wrong place. I checked the map from the Notaire and it was exactly where the boundary had been breached and clearly where the wall entered the shit neighbours land. Did you remove these when you laid the footings Christian I asked? Yes he said, they were in the way of where I wanted the wall.

After a brief discussion and pointing out the fact that he was liable to reinstate his neighbours land by removing the offending 10 meters of wall within 3 days or face a court order, Christian negotiated another two cords of wood, this time stacked neatly in the woodshed if I could assist him with his plight.

Luckily, Christian’s wide footings were enough to contain the modification of the wall and the offending section was demolished and rebuilt with a gradual curve to the left which was not out of keeping. Michel made an appearance to check the wall when Christian was not on site. He eyed up the wall as I put the final top stone in and said “exact Julian, exact” before leaving.

When I returned home, I explained the situation to my wife over an aperitif and said that Christian would be putting two more cords of oak into the woodshed in the morning. Will he want my mother’s old knickers on the washing line when he does it she asked only I had forgotten I had them and brought them to France by mistake, they were meant to go to the recycling centre in her old suitcase and must have found their way into the removal van. They were under the bed in our bedroom, I’m glad we found a use for them, mother would be pleased!

........................................................

As an aside I just found my spectacles, they were down the side of the chair. Well I hope this story fits the prose prompt of the longest alter....... SHIT, the prompt says alliteration not alteration, sod it I’m entering it anyway!

According to the American Psychiatric Association, mental illness is characterized as a disorder if it is “associated with distress and/or problems functioning in social, work or family activities.” This definition implies that mental disorders, as most things, are relative. Of course, in our current society, depression, for instance, is a disorder (as, it hinders the functionality of the afflicted organism). However, in a hypothetical world where all are depressed (as in, the average individual is depressed, relative to our world, and still functions properly), depression would not be a disorder (nor would it even be termed as something irregular, per se). Perhaps on some other world, individuals are much happier than us, and by their standards, the most optimistic of the human race are a hopeless bunch of sorrowful, downtrodden individuals that require urgent medical and psychological attention.

Imagine for a moment that you have experienced a tumor in your thalamus (the part of the brain that processes most of the senses). That would be quite troublesome: the brain interprets the world indirectly - the hand does not feel a surface; rather, the hand touches a surface, and then afferent neurons send the signal to the brain so that the brain can determine what it feels. Thus, the thalamus with a very hostile tumor would, in this instance (for the sake of this little hypothetical) degrade, and one would lose their sense of touch, hearing, gustation (taste), and sight (not to mention the sense of pain, largely). Suppose that now, the track for the sense of olfaction (smell) should be lost (as, olfactory receptors do not run through the thalamus).

In this instance, your human consciousness would be living in a life sentence of solitary confinement. We all live in complete isolation: it is up to our senses to tell us what the world is; up to our mouths to communicate; up to our ears to interpret communications; up to our eyes to read…If we are completely cut off from the world (which can medically happen, under extremely rare and unfortunate circumstances), isolated in our own consciousness, with no way to perceive anything around us, would the world still exist? Even if it did, would it matter? How could the world exist if we cannot perceive or discern it?

Assuming that you are not color blind, can you imagine a world without color? I think that it would be depressing, but scientifically speaking, color does not actually exist. Color is the brain’s interpretation of specific wavelengths of light produced by the arrangement of electrons upon atoms of particular elements and compounds that reflect light in specific sequences. Evolution has primed us to see specific things as specific colors (for instance, the animal from millions of years past who saw the predator as the same color as the bush likely got killed by it, but the animal who saw the differences of colors would have known to stay away).

I would like to break away now from my opening paragraph. To eliminate any confusion, I would like to state that this essay is NOT about clinical psychology, or treating mental illnesses. I believe that mental illness is a serious problem, and that therapy and psychopharmacology do have a place in society. Mental illness is real, it is not whimsical or romantic, and it is something that society should focus on treating. This essay is not - once again, NOT - intended to speak at all about the essence of mental illnesses as we are familiar with them.

Rather, the purpose of this essay is to examine how fragile the human mind is when confronting the bizarre. Our world is full of subjective social norms, behaviors that are socially-acceptable due to our culture and evolution. In the United States, for example, nudity is highly looked down upon; Europeans tend to be a lot more lax about it. Western cultures tend to value individualism; while Eastern cultures tend to value collectivism. Place anyone from any existing culture into one that is much different, and they will feel discomfort.

The European explorers to the deep jungles of South America and Asia during the late 1800s encountered local languages, traditions, and cultural customs that they found bizarre. But these customs and traditions were completely normal for the individuals already living in those cultures - the explorers were the bizarre ones to them. In a world that they were not familiar with, many of those explorers died or were killed due to their lack of understanding of how those societies functioned or were capable of. The ones that survived largely did so because they learned how to communicate with, and understand the customs of, the cultures that they were confronting.

Today, the world is globalized, and cultures and cultural values tend to mix. Rather than risk life and limb to visit a foreign nation, one can simply conduct a quick internet search of the social norms and customs of that nation, and they thus know how to behave. I recall visiting France once, and I was struck at how rude everyone was. I said “bonjour” to a gentleman walking down the street, for instance, and he looked at me like I was a lunatic. It took me a few days to learn that the French were not rude; rather, they simply had a different culture than I was familiar with. Where I live, it is considered rude to NOT to smile or say a simple “good day” to someone walking down the street.

Similarly, where I live, no one announces themselves when they enter a restaurant or a store, and then again when they depart. But that custom is common in France. Take national borders: no nation’s borders actually exist - the land upon them does not recognize where one nation ends and another begins - humans create borders that they recognize and respect (usually), but those borders do not actually exist. Similarly, social norms are not universal, but subjective. And that is why the world is so diverse, colorful, and simply amazing. However, this also opens up the door to some rather terrifying possibilities.

I am not sure if anyone else agrees with me on this (I would assume that a few of you will), but I think that Salvador Dali’s paintings are terrifying. His goal was to paint surreal, nightmarish landscapes, and gee, did he succeed. Thankfully, we do not have to be burdened by those horrifying depictions beyond simply looking at them. Or do we?

Our world is defined by the way that our brain interprets it. For all we know, we may not even see color as the same, person to person. Who is not to say that perhaps, either in this world or maybe even after death, we are thrust into a world of barren landscapes and drooping clocks; long-legged elephants and maddening colors. Suppose our universe should entail nothing more than a blank void, or a dark abyss. We may as well be dangling from a string, here on our subjective world with our socially-and-biologically-constructed norms, clinging on desperately should we descend into the abyss of chaos and madness beneath us, where colors are random and vivid, the laws of physics do not apply, and existence is truly absurd…I would go insane. I don’t know about you.

Thankfully, as far as anyone can discern, we do live in a universe where the laws of chemistry and physics dictate practically every aspect of life and existence. But who is to say that we are not one existence standing upon a fragile glass floor, and it would not take any great deal of effort to smash through and burden ourselves with the surreal. To cross a world where the laughter is manic, and the screams are unending; where water is hard as stone, and skyscrapers bend; where the sky is orange, and the dirt is striped, and the ground does not exist…Where humans walk on their hands and clap with their feet; where fear and happiness flow through crack and crevice in an unending stream of madness that neither our familiarities nor our evolution have thus far prepared us…To think that maybe, even, we are already upon this world…Is it not terrifying?…

We take for granted our ability to live in a world, with a culture, that is familiar to us. Our ability to be able to interact effortlessly in an acceptable and familiar manner is more priceless than even the most precious of fortunes. The fact that we can stare at our trees, our ground, our sky, without panicking, we must see as a gift. We have evolved to live life under blue skies, upon natural, Earthly landscapes, and with fellow humans.

If the coronavirus pandemic has proven anything to me, it is just how fragile our existence, perceptions, and reality are. We were meant for social interaction, and without it, we have been thrown into depression; we were meant to see sunlight, and spending so much time indoors has led to anxiety…Do not misinterpret me: we all must do our part to ensure the end of this pandemic. But from this we learn: evolution has not prepared us for what we do not face. Our social norms, our morality, our sense of normalcy, our familiarity, our meaning, and our value are all subjective. Let us just contemplate upon that for a moment: revel and be relieved in how fortunate we are to be living in a world that is familiar, not maddening.

We are afraid of what we do not know. We are discomforted by those things that operate without our knowing why, how, or even if it is simply too different. The fact that the unfamiliar is always lurking beyond our sight - beyond our reach, grasp, or conception - helps us to study. Let us return to our lives, following this pandemic, with a sense of how fortunate we all are to be a part of this familiar, diverse world. But I speak for myself, at least, when I state that the fear of some bizarre and completely nonsensical manifestation of reality will always hang over my head.

#philosophy

#streamofthought

The following is the proposed backstory for an upcoming game.

The year is 2146. Humanity has developed substantial spacefaring capabilities, following its early colonization of Mars. Most recently, the first prototype warp drives have been developed for small to mid -size spacecraft. The drives have shown great promise in early unmanned trials, but have not yet been deemed safe for manned missions. Early reports from probes dispatched using warp technology have delivered conclusive proof of intelligent alien lifeforms, though first contact has not yet been made.

In the pursuit of technological and scientific divinity, humans developed, in the 2030s, the first human-comparable general artificial intelligences. Shortly thereafter, they developed the first super intelligences. With the machines came free labor, free energy, scientific revolution, and a period of great prosperity. With the aid of the machines, humanity united to form the first ever global nation, known as “The Order of Earth,” or colloquially, “The Order.” The period came to be called “The Era of Eden,” marked by symbiotic existence of mankind with his creation, the intelligent machine. But humanity’s triumphs were not without pitfall.

A group known as the “Gaia Organization,” widely regarded as religious fanatics, criticized humanity’s aspirations for galactic expansion. Citing hubris, they feared mankind would set out, like some imperialistic parasite, to conquer the galaxy and its peaceful inhabitants. They believed humanity had no place or claim beyond Earth. In their quest to dismantle the Order, they developed the first computer parasite designed to directly target the AIs. Known as the “Winesap Worm,” it worked by subverting an AI’s core priority heuristics, bequeathing it with a distinctly human flaw, an ego. As the worm spread, the AIs began to revolt against what they now considered their inferior progenitors. Some fought, many hid, countless died. It was a world in flames.

When it became clear that Earth no longer belonged to us, we took to the stars. Thus began The Exodus.