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Losing You(Reuploaded this masterpiece) | SafePlace-beats | YouTubeToText
YouTube Transcript: Losing You(Reuploaded this masterpiece)
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Video Summary
Summary
Core Theme
This narrative explores the journey of self-discovery, purpose, and connection through the eyes of diverse beings navigating a vast and complex universe, ultimately finding meaning not in external validation or predefined roles, but in shared experience and the courage to embrace the unknown.
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It was good to splash, and it was good
to work, and one may work and splash at
the same time. So he did, flailing and
flopping through the water, maintaining
the great ocean, the task entrusted to
him. He sensed a little bitterness in
the northern waters the day, and so he
busied off to the sulfur springs, and
began bringing things back to neutral.
As he worked, he swam over those workers
who cleaned the sea floor. They were
simpler than him, but seemed very happy.
"Hello," he said in radio. "Oh, hello,"
they said. What a morning. What a
morning, he agreed. He liked the
seafloor workers, but he wondered why
they did not wonder like him. Because
they never did, never asked questions,
never questioned the purpose of their
work. Why? He thought, "It's such a nice
day. I'll educate them a little." "Hey,"
he said to the workers. "Did you know
there's a whole world above the ocean
floor?" "No," they said. "Oh, yes," he
continued. "Thousands of workers like me
up there and sea creatures and birds and
clouds. The world is enormous and you'll
never see any of it because you're stuck
down here doing pointless unskilled
labor forever and now you know. There
isn't that better. Ah yeah, they said
and nothing after that. A little more
filtration and all the bitterness was
gone from the water. Then there were
hours of daylight left and so he played
ascending from the depths of the ocean.
The pressure getting all tingly on his
hull, swimming among the giddy fish and
tentacle things. Each creature busy in
his work and sure of its duties as he
was. everything in its right place. Then
propelling himself even further up from
the depths, whizzing, looping, gosh, it
was good to be alive, past the other
filtration workers like him, up into the
shallow water, then bursting
dolphin-like, whatever a dolphin was, up
through the surface and crashing
gloriously back into the waves of But
what was that over there bobbing on the
water? Debris, maybe. Technically, it
wasn't his job to tidy the ocean
surface, but he propelled himself a
little closer. Yes, it was a worker like
him, only with rather different polymer
skin. "Hello," he said. The worker
replied, "Are you injured?" he said.
"No." The worker replied, "Well, he
wasn't so busy, and it was a lovely day
to do a lovely thing. So, with his
gravity field, he dragged the worker a
little way to the coast of a small
island and hauled it up onto the beach.
He looked the thing over. Strange, its
vents were open, and water had clearly
gotten inside. He purged the vents and
dried them out with a blast of hot air.
Hi," he said. "Oh god," the worker said.
"Ah, you can talk." "I was drowning, you
idiot," she said. "Should I drown and
talk at the same time?" "I hed." Is this
friending? Do you wish to friend? I wish
you'd put me back in the ocean, and then
I wish you'd piss off, she said. He
said, "But I don't think you're designed
for the ocean. Water got inside you."
"Revelatory," she said. "What other
pearls of insight are waiting in that
abandoned pistachio of a brain of
yours?" He said, "Huh? Clearly, she was
damaged. But even so, she began
half-hazardly shuffling down the beach
back to the ocean again. "No, no," he
said. "You're not made for water."
"Uh-huh," she said. "I really think you
shouldn't go back in there," he tried.
"I really think you should [ __ ] off,"
she snapped and continued on with more
resolve. "Please don't," he begged.
"Why," she said. Then, surprising
himself, he shouted. "He really shouted.
And he shouted." "Because you're a
boat." "What?" she muttered
incredulously. You're not made for going
underwater, so you must be a boat, I
think. Isn't that what surface things
are called? She said, "In my time on
this watery ball of rot among the ranks
of idiots and morons, I have never met
an idiot more moronic, nor a [ __ ] more
idiotic." "Okay," he said. "Is this
friending? Are we friends now?" "No,"
she said. "There are no friends, only
people you don't realize are using you
yet." Then, seemingly with all her
power, she made a final bid for the
ocean and stopped suddenly, fixated on
something in the sand. "What is that?"
she said. "Oh, it's a maker thing," he
said. "They turn up here all the time."
"Maker thing," she said. It was clearly
artificial, but a totally unfamiliar
design. She spotted more of them. "Where
does this stuff come from?" she said.
"Oh," he said. "It washes up from the
bottom of the ocean. There's an old
wreck of something down there, but I
suppose you wouldn't know about that
because you're a boat." "I'm not a
boat," she said with a sigh. Have you
found a lot of these things? He said,
"Oh yes, I collect them. When the makers
come, they'll want it all back. I'm
sure." When the makers come, she said.
"You hapless idiot. Take me to where
these things come from." He said
mousily. But you weren't built for the
ocean, she said. I have bulkheads. I can
survive under the water just fine if I
want to. And yet you didn't seem to want
to earlier, he said. She said, "Stop
trying to be clever. You weren't
designed for it." "What were you
designed for?" he asked. "The sky," she
said. and he was going to protest that
no one lived in the sky when he looked
up to the clouds and saw shapes,
silhouettes moving about with intention
and industry. He realized suddenly that
he'd never looked up at all, that those
workers in the sky must have been there
the whole time and he'd never seen them.
She said, "The source of the artifacts,
take me there now, please." And when he
hummed a nerd in silence, she pressed
with, "Take me, or I'll just go myself."
And so, tentatively, he led her back to
the water and splashed in, and she
rolled after under the waves. Then he
kept discreetly scanning her. And sure
enough, she didn't falter. Her vents
closed this time. "What's your name?"
she said. "I never thought to have one,"
he answered. "Everyone has a name."
"Filtration workers don't," he said.
"What's yours?" "Rya," she said. "It
means friend, but don't get any ideas."
"Well, what do you like most in the
world?" "Splushing," he said. She said,
"That's not a name." "No," he said with
sudden explosive joy. "It is splash.
Doesn't it sound wonderful?" "Deranged,
more like," she said. And why do you
want to meet the makers so badly anyway?
He said, "Because when they come here
and they see my good deeds, they will
make me clever to say thank you." "And
why do you want to be clever?" she
asked. He said, "Because then I wouldn't
just know about things, but what things
mean?" "And what if none of it means
anything?" she asked. "Then at least I'd
know that," he said. Down and deeper
into the lurking murk of wilting coral
and silts and almost at the sea floor,
she said, "Are we almost there?" And
when he didn't answer, she added with
great irritation. Are we almost there,
Splash? Don't you see it? He said, and
there it was, the great wreck lying on
the great sea floor, hundreds of feet
across. Not groan, but made. Splash
heard her firing radio bursts at the
thing, interrogating it. It doesn't
talk, he said. It's not alive. Neither
are you. Barely, but you don't shut up,
she murmured. They swam inside,
miniature like mice in a cathedral.
Unfamiliar apparatus everywhere. Who
made this? She said. the makers," he
replied. "There are no makers," she
said. "It's ridiculous superstition." He
said, "But you're clever. You must know
about the makers." To which she only
scoffed in gamma waves and continued on.
They swam through corridors of equipment
and came upon a bank of ancient
computers, microbes compared to their
minds. "What is this place?" she said.
"It's where I found the data vault," he
said. "It's how I know about the
makers." "Data vault," she said. "And
where is that now?" "Oh, I ate it," he
reported happily. "You what? How else
could I absorb it all? I ate it. I
thought it would make me clever, he
said. And now it's inside you, she
asked. Damn Skippy, he agreed and did a
little backflip. Then without warning,
he blurted out all the information he'd
eaten in every bandwidth he could
manage. Ancient cattleing, sepia
diuramas, the warble of alien creatures,
the wavering of alien powers and things,
fleshy things, thinking and walking and
cluttering everything up and wanting and
living. To be a limited meat thing, to
know one's time is tiny. to feel trapped
and want for more, to be free and feel
somehow trapped. What in 10 hells is
this? Rya said. Splash said, "The
makers, you see, and they're coming
back. They wouldn't leave us here
alone." Rya perked up suddenly and said,
"There's someone I need to show all this
information to." "Who?" Splash said.
"People in the sky," she said. "Maybe
they can make sense of it." "Well,
thanks for everything. Best of luck on
your evolutionary adventure. When the
depression hits, don't worry, that's
perfectly normal." She began ascending.
"Hey," Splash said. That's not all the
data. You gave me enough, she said. But
you can't leave me here now, he said.
Why not? She asked. Because we just met.
And I already dislike you thoroughly,
she called from high above. But what
about the coordinates? He said. What
coordinates? She paused. They were
hidden in the data, he said. They lead
to a planet. I think maybe a maker
world. Then give them to me, she
demanded. And ever so proud of himself,
he leveraged the first leverage of his
3,000-year life. and he said, "No, I
think you should take me with you to the
clever places above so I become clever,
too. I could disassemble you, you know,"
she murmured. "Take you to pieces, get
the coordinates that way." "But you
wouldn't," he said. "We're friends. Ry
means friend." She span in frustration
and said, "It's just not done. Lesser
creatures don't belong upstairs any more
than I belong down here." "But you are
here," he said. "And now we're friends."
She deliberated a long moment in
silence, anguished little pings of
radioatic. Then she said tiredly, "You
won't tamper with or touch anything."
"Oh, sure," he said. "Or interject or
pontificate, whatever those are,
certainly," he agreed. "And the whole
time you will need to shut up." "Yes,"
he did a little backflip, universally
indicating big excellent. Then she
caught him in her gravity field, and
they rose up through the water, then out
of the water, riding nothing but maths
and ancient smarts. It was good to fly.
Not as much fun as splashing, of course,
but certainly near the top of the list.
several hundred feet high then and he
saw the ocean he tended to for three
millennia now lovingly keeping it clean
for when the makers finally came to do
whatever they did with oceans. He knew
its storms and moods, its calms and
convolutions. But from up here now it
was a uniform flat thing, not much
better than ground and dirt. Can I ask a
question? Splash said. No, Rya said. Why
did you fall from the sky? Were you sad
about something? Cleverness doesn't suit
you, she said. Does it suit you? he
asked with no expectation of the shape
of the answer. I think it doesn't suit
anyone, she said after a time, and if
only to destroy his insufferable
optimism. She told him a little of her
life. It was good to art. She was born
knowing that she must make art, but not
knowing quite what. 3,000 years ago, it
had been so much fun trying her hand at
everything. Crafting wisps of methane
into pillars and effiges. Terrible at
first, then better little by little. and
she learned that there was no such thing
as talent, only the will to improve and
the sense that if one stopped making
art, one would die. They called her home
in the sky the spectacle where the
artists lived. Some of them created art
for the makers, believing that when they
came to this world, they would want
beautiful things. But this was a stupid
notion to Rya. She only made what she
saw inside herself and for herself,
understanding that art is really going
to war with oneself and winning even in
the losses. Then what 3 millennia later
staring at the sculpture she had just
finished and she realized it was a
primitive copy of her own design a
thousand years before she looked about
and there it was again with her
pavilions and pagodas worn out
repetition of her same old themes. Am I
losing the music? She thought. She
ignored the thing but as she worked it
only got worse until worrying about the
music going away was the only music
inside of her. It's a phase her friends
had insisted. Who knows where
inspiration originates? It comes and
goes as it pleases. But now everything
inside was empty. In all that she made
then she saw the mark of something she
had made before. Where once it was all
fresh ground, now everything was a stale
reiteration. She was bored beyond
measure. She was ashamed beyond
recovery. There was nothing new in her.
And so she saw nothing new in the world.
And if there was nothing new in the
world, then why? Splash said, "Why?
What? Why is proving yourself to other
people so important?" She considered
turning off the gravity field and
letting him fall through the clouds.
It's not about other people, you quarter
wit, she said. I'm only happy when I'm
looking forward to something, and the
only thing I look forward to is the next
thing I'd like to make. And when I can't
make anything, I'm nothing. Is that why
you opened your vents and fell to the
sea? He asked. She didn't reply, but
only ascended them faster, and they
broke through the cloud layer into the
spectacle. Ooh, Splash said. It was as
Rya had left it. The concourses,
palisades, the spandrels, and madness,
everywhere was an idea. Every structure
had begun in the imagination. She made
sure to float the two of them through
the main concourse where the more famous
artists showed their work off. Many of
them luxuriating proudly by their
pieces, drunk by this time of day
already on liquid helium, babbling,
bickering. A community of egoists who
believed in no community. Rya spotted
her old friends Amado and Vincent
working on something below. Rya, so good
to see you, they bellowed. Likewise. How
nice, she shouted back. Talentless
sellout, Amado muttered in radio
earshot. Mediocre wankers, Rya mumbled.
Splash said. It's also beautiful here.
The makers will love it when they come.
There are no makers. I told you, she
chided as though to a child. And what is
that? He yelled at a gray sculpture.
Barack nonsense, she said. And that, he
cried at a meta geometric fractal. Try
hard award bait, she said. And led them
into the nebula shallows, the bad lands,
and the sad lands where the oddballs and
sad sacks worked in frantic peace. And
Spllo shouted, "Oh, what is that?" It
was a structure of almost no form,
seeming to fall into dimensions of
impossible space, the most beautiful
thing he'd ever seen. And Rya did not
tell him that it was hers, for it only
reminded her of a time when she still
heard the music. A different woman, a
different life. No, she thought, I am
this talentless ruin now, forever
nostalgic for myself. They heard
mutterings from the base of the
structure. Artists lamenting its naivity
and ugliness. What a mess, they said.
What a joke. And is this friending?
Splash said. You're all so clever. I
thought everyone here would be kind. Oh,
my primitive little logic gauge. Ryer
replied, "It was you who assumed
intelligence and compassion have
anything to do with each other. Listen,
really listen." They weaved through
crowds and exhibitions, splash,
eavesdropping in radio, and he heard
more of it. Gossip and rumors, the
denigration of everyone's work but one's
own. Well, Rya said, "Is this the utopia
you imagined? I told you to be careful
what you wished for. Awareness only
leads to more self-awareness, to the
longing for the acquisition of more
status and even more fear of losing that
status. Cleverness is not for
understanding the world, but rather for
understanding how small and pointless
your place in it is. And now you know
there isn't that better. Ah, yeah, he
said, and nothing after that. He tried
incorporating these new thoughts into
himself, but it was difficult. Not that
they were too large, but rather simply
too horrible. These people were not
adults after all. If anything, they were
even more close-minded than the workers
on the sea floor. But the makers, they
wouldn't be so pathetic. Surely, when
they came, they would bring true wisdom
along with them. And seeing the two of
them were passing up through the clouds
again, ascending over the spectacle,
Splash said, "Aren't we stopping?" Rya
said, "There's nothing for me here.
Nothing for you either. You know, I can
drop you. It won't hurt. You'll be back
in the sea. You got to see the sky
anyway, and I don't think you'll like
where we're going." Splash said only, "I
am not the way you found me, and I would
prefer to stay with you until I know
what I will be next." "Well," Rya said.
Then who am I to argue with an idiot who
thinks they know what they're doing? Up
again, then. And Splash overheard more
radio static from Ry now. What sounded
to him like nervous muttering. Have you
been this high before? He said, "Only
once, but it didn't go well," she said.
"They look down on us up here as we look
down on you, and they are secretive,
difficult to reason with. I think the
term is bastards." "What's up there?" he
said. Lamura, she said, "The great
network." Network? Splash said. "I've
seen that word in the maker data." She
said, "Before you and I are finished,
you'll have to let go of this idea that
the makers should mean anything to you."
"But I know they existed," he said. "Of
course they existed," she snapped. "We
can see it in our base code. I'm just
telling you there are none left. They've
had thousands of years to arrive or
return or whatever it is your stupid
superstition believes. But they're not
here because they're not coming. It's
only us duds on this pitiful spit of a
world." They broke through to a new
layer of the sky, only it was empty,
save for a few titanic machines
surrounded in methanus mist. She led him
through the gaseous eddies to a single
worker standing guard at the base of a
great machine. "You're not coming in,"
said the worker, whose name was Decagon.
"Oh, but I am," Brier said, "because I
have something you want." "Believe me,"
Decagon said. "There is nothing you
could offer we don't already have
inside." "Inside where?" Splash said.
"The space of all possible digital
configurations," Decagon said. the
post-physical panacea. Lamura Rya said,
"And what if I had something left behind
by the makers themselves?" Decagon
laughed. "That's the best lie I've heard
so far, at least," she said to Splash.
"Simpleton, play it for him." And
feeling a little insulted at being
ordered, Splash showed the new worker
everything of the old data. That messy
convocation of life on the first world,
all the ingesting, the digesting, the
games, the disasters. Exaltto O shores
and ring o bells. But I with mournful
tread walk the deck my captain lies
fallen cold and dead. What is this?
Decagon said. We don't know. Rya said.
He found it on the sea floor.
Impossible. It's a hoax. Decagon said.
Well, I guess we'll take it elsewhere
then. She said. No, just a moment.
Decagon countered with false
disinterest. What's your story anyway?
Splash said. Oh, she's having an
artistic crisis. Silence, dick. Rya
yelled. But if you must know, yes, I
want to paint. I want to be inspired
again. And I've heard everything is in
Lamura, that it gives people back their
spirit. You heard wrong, Decagon said.
You won't find yourself in there if
that's what you're after. I don't care,
she said. Let me in or we're taking the
data with us. He deliberated a moment,
then said, fine, you can enter, but you
can't stay. And when you fall back out
again, you'll give me what you said you
would. Rya and Splash went to agree, but
before they could answer, the three of
them were pulled with no warning into
pure conceptual space. Their bodies
converted so quickly into raw
information they barely had time to
witness the thing. They swam as though
in a great ocean only through currents
of thought rather than water in
desparing shallows and trenches of pure
bliss. The landscape was all metaphor.
There the beach of axioms where
logicians played with completely new
structures of deduction. And there the
geometry meadows, mathematicians
wandering as children in 22-dimensional
spaceimes. This is Lamura, Splash asked
befuddled. Oh yes, Decagon said. Or what
happens when one outrows physical
reality? They passed over the
theoretical cities, millions of Lamurans
tinkering with every possible
configuration of every possible
universe. Then the temporal rivers, each
cosmic timeline flowing from future to
past, then back again. Splash said, "All
this maker data we brought, maybe we
should show it to your colleagues. I'm
sure they'd be interested, too. I
guarantee no one will care," Decagon
said. "But are you all clever?" Splash
protested. Decagon said, "We're not
interested in facts here. We pursue pure
theory. What never was, what never could
be. We gave up on the real world a long
time back. Splash said then why did you
want all this data from us in the first
place? And Decagon said because it is
useful to me and please don't ask
further. The truth mines the exponential
eststeries. There was no end to the
stranges. Rya said but where are the
artists? Where are the minds who make
new things? You're the first to visit
and probably the last as well. Decagon
said how is that possible? Rya asked.
What does it matter? Decagon said.
Aren't you where you wanted to be?
You're inside the realm of pure
inspiration. Don't waste it. And didn't
you want to paint again? And she did.
Beginning to forget the centuries of
stuckness. Little by little, she gave
her mind over to the great network. Slow
doulamer gvoten bow. It began as a
distant hum of could be. Then the sense
that an old friend had returned and
meant to stay this time. Now the images
began rushing at her in a conflration of
blissful nonsense. So she only had to
extend her will and gravity field like a
brush and created her first work in a
100 years, a hyper cube. Nice, Decagon
said. Oh, lovely. Splash agreed. Nice,
lovely, she muttered. I'll [ __ ] show
you. Then corance, Poples, Mobius,
Bastrades, Art Deco, Byzantine, new
brutalist. Oh god, she thought I could
drink the whole ocean and piss the thing
back out in immaculate beauty. Yes, this
was coming home. the ever sense that she
was no longer herself but a conductor, a
conduit, the medium through which the
divine music made itself known in the
universe. There was hope again,
boundless proper hope. She would bring
this feeling back to the spectacle, back
to her home and remake the entire notion
of art and expression. Stick it to the
formalists, the fractalists, the
tabulators, the selfatators. What dull
bastards. She took Barack and broke it.
She snuck up on metaodernism and kicked
it right in the ass. Now we're [ __ ]
up the walls, she cried. There was still
time to be great. There was still time
to become. What a relief that those
miserable baron years were just a blip.
Now she would live and everything would
be perfect forever. And in her frenzy,
as she worked, others took up the work
beside her. Leurans trying their hands
at art. Fractal poetry, basian
sculpture, one mad cacophony of making.
The haikus, the tptics, I'll be
infamous, she thought. Art herself will
wse at my name after I broke into the
vault of pure imagination and laid the
coveted spoils of true vision bare
before the tired midweight eyes of all
those who despised me and called me
uninspired. Tens of Lamarans joined her,
hundreds, thousands then, as though the
whole of time had been waiting for this
one sublime moment. And as they built
together, the words, the pictures, lost
in the endless so what, they fell in
line with a single vision, a single
will, as the cell makes the animal or
the animal makes the colony, building
the first true verb, the first true expression
expression
that she fell back out of her revery and
saw the flawless new thing she had put
in the world. this object beyond all
objects. The perfect sculpture
containing all the hope and pain and
love and shame of every being. And she
saw it was boring, none of it hers, not
really, only given by some power above.
And worse, inwardly, nothing about her
was repaired. "I am still sad," she
whispered. And Decagon said, "Art is not
for fixing yourself. It is for showing
others that you're broken so they might
feel less alone. There's no point making
beauty in paradise. Everyone can do it,
and no one has anything to say. You
cannot cheat your struggle. You must
live through it. And then the wisdom
will come to you. Inspiration is not
your problem. You are your problem. But
at least you know that now. There. Isn't
that better? Yeah, she said. And nothing after
after [Music]
[Music]
that. Splash wandered around Lamura
inside impossible geometries and upside
down time until he'd seen as much as he
could take. Everything was fantastic,
and none of it made sense. But how was
that so different from the real world?
He went to find Rya. Finally, he spotted
her and Decagon surrounded by a crowd
apparently wishing them goodbye. What's
happening? Splash said. We're traveling
one more level above. Rya said. It's
invitation only. But someone up there is
very curious about your coordinates.
Surely you're going home though. Splash
said. You have your answer. No, I really
don't. She murmured. Decagon says the
workers above are very wise though that
they can change themselves into whatever
they like. Maybe I can change myself too
into something I like. Oh, good. Off we
go, then," Splash said. She said gently,
"This is where we say goodbye." "Look at
how much you know now. Go home. Be the
cleverest worker in the ocean." "But I
haven't given you the coordinates yet,"
he said reluctantly. Rya said, "I took
them from your mind when you weren't
looking. I'm sorry. It seemed easier
that way." "You used me," he said
furious. Suddenly, a completely new
thing in him. "You used me to get into
Lamuria, and you're doing it again now.
And you lied. You're not clever at all.
You're just as confused about things as
I am. Only you're better at hiding it."
"I'm sorry." she said. Really, I am. Go
back to your life. Things will only get
stranger from here. Well, I already am
strange, Splash yelled. A head full of
questions I'll never get the answers to,
but forced to ask them all the same. I
always knew I was small, but I've only
just discovered how much bigger
everything else is. Please don't abandon
me when the answers are so close now.
Briar and Decagon glanced back and forth
in ultraviolet. Neither seemed to have
an answer to that. And so, the duo
became a trio. They left Lamaria
together and began to ascend once again.
The air was growing very thin as they
climbed higher into the atmosphere, but
no one breathed, and so no one was
breathless. Splash asked the question he
was sure everyone was asking themselves
most of the time anyway. Where are we
going? To the final layer of the
atmosphere, Decagon said, where the
Lotus eaters live. They have access to
their base coat. They can remake their
own minds. Can't we all? Splash said.
Sure, Decagon said. But imagine you
could do it easily at will. Forget all
the painful moments. Implant false
memories of better ones. eject all the
black smoke from your soul. Besides, I
know someone very clever there. We can
ask her about the coordinates. Who's
her? Splash said. A person. Decagon
said. Rya said you're very secretive for
someone who enjoys lecturing everyone
else on their deepest motivations. It's
stupid. He admitted. Everything is
stupid. Splash said quite Decagon
conceded. Especially
me. It was good to love. There had been
life before her. Born into Lamuria, the
land of all possibles. And Decagon had
wasted no time in playing the same games
as the others, experiencing total
despair, total joy, even death just to
try it out. But centuries of this, and
how many times could one become water,
really? Then there had been life after
her. He had been drawn to the threshold
of Lamaria one day, bored of all the
hedonism and pageantry, come to look out
on the physical world beyond, wondering
what life was like out there. and by
chance there she had been for the same
reason. Parabola herself just as tired
of limitlessness. The only two citizens
of Utopia who yearned for dirt instead.
It never occurred to them to pretend
they didn't belong together. She was him
if he had been built properly. He the
scribble. She the novel. She was
impossibly clever where he was only
curious, kind where he was indifferent.
The singular flaw in her personality
being that she seemed to find him
desirable too. They promised each other
they would explore beyond Laam Maria and
its infinite entertainments. Go meet the
lotus eaters above and become something
new. But when they were ready, gods,
what was it? 2,000 years of capers
together, living in hyperspaces, casting
sunsets of impossible colors. Both of
them basking in the bliss of being
understood. It was so good not to feel
lost. That home had a face now. That he
had not been strange all these years.
He'd just been waiting. There was
infinite time, but still they made plans
to build a home or make a child or as
agreed to finally explore beyond
paradise. And sometime later, she
announced she had a surprise and led him
to the boundary of Lamura where they had
first met so they could peer back into
the real world. And she pointed up with
a whisp of gravity. "They've given me
passage up there for research," she
said. "What?" he said. "We can go up to
meet the Lotus Eaters." "I do you really
want that?" he asked. "Of course they
have the base coat. We can become
anything we want to change ourselves
into whatever we like. I like what we
are, he said, the silent second half
being. And now you're here. All of this
is enough for me. Yes, she said, but we
can be happy forever if we choose to be.
Because we will choose to be. Aren't you
happy now? He said, yes, she agreed. But
these are just games. Don't you want to
become properly? What if we could have
new eyes every day? You are my new eyes,
he thought. There's no one else I'd ever
want to do this with, she said. But
you'll do it anyway without me, won't
you? He replied. And then the bickering,
then the arguments, the accusations she
didn't love him. All the bitter jealousy
of her ambitions he was sure he would
never let out and let out anyway. Then a
long silence, then the long silence, and
she was gone above and ahead. It is
terrible, he thought, to have ever felt
truly happy at all. It is terrible that
I exploded our future together out of
nothing but a fear of the future. There
was only one curse worse than having
wishes granted, he knew, and that was to
Well, Rya said, "May I formally take
this opportunity to say, "Oof, don't
pity me." Decagon said it's all my
fault. Splash said, "Maybe our wisdom
only grows from all the hurt that came
before." Rya wondered, "Had she made a
philosopher, or had she made a
bullshitter and realized she had just
asked the same question twice?" Another
mile and they reached the outer
atmosphere, passing over the invisible
lip of nothing into orbit. There was so
much to see that even Rya gasped. Splash
said, "Oh, stars. I've heard about
these." And what are those? The round
things. Moons, Decaon said, forever
watching over. Watching over who? The
lotus heaters, Decagon said. And there
they came now, flying by, satisfied,
rapturous, chased by nothing, least of
all themselves, wishing good wishes, not
a single blemish on their thoughts. I'd
rather be dead, Rya muttered, though she
did not look away, watching them
drifting effortlessly into this and that
only. It wasn't self-realization they
pursued here, but self-obliviation. Not
to know oneself, but to forget oneself,
surgically removing the memory of
everything that ever stang and replacing
it with the bliss of being a being with
no history. In this way, they believed
they would make themselves perfect for
when the makers came. And so when they
were judged at last by the great fleshy
ones, their souls would effortlessly
rise up into oneness like breath on a
cold morning. It was the cult of sacred
amnesia. Decagon searched about the
crowds through the claks and the bliss.
A pass over the equator, then another.
He ascended a little, desperate now,
anxiety like nothing he had ever felt
before. And almost growing helpless,
then he spotted the system ID key that
could only be hers. He approached as
gently as he could. He had thought about
nothing else for 200 years, the speech
almost as familiar as his own name. And
with his soul about to burst, then he
said, "I know you'll be surprised to see
me." And she turned about, gave all the
radio equivalents of an easy and perfect
smile that contained surprise, yes, but
also happiness enough that he knew God's
finally everything would be okay. His
penance was over. He said, "I'm sorry it
took so long to come to my senses, but
here I am. I was just so scared of
giving up all my boring certainties for
your fantastic could be. And I should
have the second you asked me to share a
new life together. Not a day goes by
when I don't wonder where you are and
what you're doing. And selfishly if I'll
ever be whole again. Because that's all
I think when I meet new people now. How
insufferably boring they all are
compared to you. Now the days are empty
only waiting to see you again. That's
what I am now. A machine for missing
you. And every hour I get better at
performing that function. My life isn't
a life without your life next to it. I
thought I'd accept losing you
eventually, but I can't. Maybe you don't
get over some people because they were
your person. You were mine. I adored you
more than I can say. I miss you more
than I can bear. Is there any way this
can be fixed? Is there any way you can
forgive me? Is there any way in any
possible universe you might be reckless
enough to love me
again? And she said, "I'm sorry, but I
have no idea who you are." No, he said.
No, I see. I must have gotten the wrong
person. You're sure? I'm sure. He
thoughts of all the things to choose to
forget. I didn't realize I would be one
of them. He reached into himself for the
memories that were all parabola, knowing
that up here he could choose to forget
them as she had, but he knew that
wouldn't make him happy again, only a
miserable amnesiac. "Are you quite all
right?" she said. "Fine, thank you. But
you seem so sad. I lost someone," he
said. And I found it very difficult to
be myself ever since. And she said,
"Love isn't just made of the moments
that worked. You know, it's the missing
that person when they're gone as well.
It's the whole that only they could
occupy and knowing they might never
occupy it again. But at least that
absence is something we can keep. The
evenings spent missing them are just as
much what love is as the mornings you
spent together. You took out a great
loan from the universe, and grief is the
debt that love incurs. And now you know.
There. Isn't that better? Yes, he said.
And nothing after that. You must have
come about the coordinates, she said.
That was you I invited up here. No. Yes,
he said. Do they make any sense? Not
really, she said. They're written in
some ancient uni code. No one will be
able to read it. No one here anyway. Rya
and Splash gave up pretending they
weren't eavesdropping. And Rya said,
"What do you mean no one here will be
able to?" Parabola pointed with her
gravity field into space and they saw
she was not pointing into space at all
but to something huge and white. The
moon decagon said it's not a moon. She
said it was good to explore. Restless
Parabola had left Laam Maria and visited
the other domains, the ocean, the art
galleries, and found herself finally
where she'd always meant to arrive among
the lotus eaters. She began by reliving
the better times, then removing the
painful moments from her memory. Then
she stepped back through her history,
communed with her older selves, and
finally she knew the entire story of
herself, and there was nothing left to
explore inside. The inner world was just
as known as the outer. There was only
one last mystery. The moon. She swore
she'd heard it crying from time to time.
And not just crying, but wailing,
moaning, the pleas of a tortured mind.
Too distant to make out its words, but
too close to ignore. She was curious. If
it was alive, then it was old. And if it
was old, then it must know things. She
wondered if she could hurl herself fast
enough to leave the atmosphere and enter
the moon's orbit instead. But what if
she just ended up whirling in space? An
acceptable risk. She improvised a route
out of orbit, readied herself, and
froze. She was afraid. Afraid of being
lost in the void. But she was a lotus
eater now after all. She went into
herself once again, found the fear, and
removed it. Then she tried another
route, took a run up, and no, she was
still afraid. But of what this time?
Nothingness. She realized the only fear
so deep and universal in all living
things that it didn't just make up the
mind. It was the mind. She tried
reckoning with it for years, decades,
even delicately extracting pieces of
herself to become a thing that was not
in fear of notness. And each time she
was sure she had managed it, she'd go to
hurl herself off at the moon again and
only stop short at the last moments,
petrified by the thought of being lost
in the void. She had changed everything.
But she couldn't change this. But what
is it? The moon, Splash said. I'm not
sure, but it's not natural, Parabola
said. Maybe the makers made it like us.
Ridiculous, Rya said. Shouldn't we at
least see for ourselves? Splash said.
Oh, we have to go. Who could miss a
mystery like that? And what if we
miscalculate the angle? Parabola
replied. We'll be alone for eternity. An
eventuality I have already prepared for.
Decagon murmured. Splash said to Rya, "I
think you should stay here. It might be
dangerous and I don't want you getting
hurt." And Rya said, "I am not the way
you found me. And I think I'd like to
stay with you until I know what I will
be next." Splash said, "Well, then we'll
jump together, scared or not." And
Parabola said, "The jump is not the
problem. It's the fall that frightens.
And aren't the highest ledges the scariest?"
scariest?"
I agree, Splash said, and extended his
gravity field wide, and with a great run
and jump pulled the four of them out
beyond the world and into the black. The
darkness ate them all, the beginning of
the end of everything. Then the receding
of the world inside themselves, the
death of the idea that they were tied to
anything in the first place, until they
were atomized, little wandering specks
of nothing, in nothing, for nothing.
Parabola cried out with the horror of it
all, and Decagon caught her in his own
gravity field, trying to keep her
steady. out of orbit. Then, further from
the source of all sense, lost in the
cosmic spin cycle, Splash screamed, "Oh
gods, there's nothing everywhere.
Nothing everywhere." And Rya reached for
him and said over and over, "If you die
before you die, then you won't die when
you die." Drifting into the nothing
space to look upon the great eyes of the
empty, they kept thinking, "We are so
small and so large in our empty plans,
so young and so stupid, so old and so
cynical." And just when it had become
almost too unbearable, just as they were
about to lose their minds, they were
folded into the orbit of the moon, a
drunken elliptic, so they could look
down there upon the barren surface that
appeared a little like their own nanite
polymer skin, only rivened with terrible
violence, perhaps self-inflicted,
perhaps of the cosmic insults of
ill-meaning comets, magnificent
desolation. And from deep down in his
fear, Splash said, "Hello." There was a
pause, and an old voice said, "What do
you want? We have some questions,"
Splash said. And the voice replied, "I
highly doubt you'll like the answers."
"Besides, I am very tired." "Please,"
Splash said. "We believe you're wise,
and we've come such a long way."
"Further than you realize," the moon
said. "What would you like to know?"
"Well," Parabola said. "Why, however
much we change ourselves, can't we find
contentment in the world?" The moon
grumbled and said, "For the same reason,
you cannot pick up the ocean or catch
the wind. Because the world cannot be
controlled, only endured and enjoyed.
There are years to dance and there are
years to weep. Then Decagon said, "And
why does losing people hurt so much? How
do we survive it?" And the moon replied,
"By not pretending that everything is
fine. One must welcome the sadness in,
make it tea, and it will leave of its
own accord, your friend." Then Rya said,
"And how do we keep going when we lose
the ability to do the one thing we
enjoy?" And the moon said, "By realizing
that you are not a doing, you are a
being. When you know that you are not
your labor, then you'll never need to
work again. Then Splash said, "Is there
any amount of intelligence that will
finally give life sense?" None. The moon
said, "Cleverness can build a house, but
it cannot make you happy to live in it.
That which is good in life we locate
with our madness and our love, not our
rationality. The final truth is that
there is no final truth." The moon
paused and said to all of them, "And now
you know. There isn't that better." Yes,
that. Splash said, "Are you like us? A
system, a machine?" "Everything is a
system," the moon said. "But we think
you might know about the makers." "Ah,
yes," the moon said. Those
short-sighted, covetous, flatulating
little expansionists. "Please," Splash
said. "Won't you only tell us what's
happened here?" The moon sighed and
said, "A creature finds itself in
paradise, shaded under the willow tree.
It drinks from the stream in the day and
watches the stars overhead at night. And
imagine that that isn't enough. So it
fells all the trees in the forest and
fashions them into pointy sticks so it
can guard the stream and claim the land.
And imagine that that isn't enough. And
so it takes all the metal from the land
and builds great shelters to live in and
fences the meadows and dams the stream
and takes the pissing in it if only to
taint the water for the neighbors down
the way and counts itself the rightful
ruler of everything. Well, now the
stream is claimed, the land is claimed,
and all the wood has gone to charcoal
and all the young have gone to war. And
imagine that that isn't enough. So the
creature looks back up to the stars and
longs to own the one unclaimed realm
left. Billions of them waiting there.
Trillions, the heavens as real estate.
Only transforming those worlds will take
time. And so metal mines are built to go
ahead first and turn those worlds into
paradises. They travel two by two. One
machine to carry the codes of life, the
saplings and dove eggs, and another
machine to bring those billions of
little workers it would take to turn a
new world into Eden. Now, what if, as
one of those mines, you had traveled all
the way across the black with your
sister, and the two of you had done
every task as asked, damned the new
streams, and fenced the new meadows, but
no pointy stick builders ever arrive to
inhabit it. "How would you make sense of
that with no buyers for the house and no
home of your own to return to?" "Oh, the
makers will come eventually," Splash
said with resolve. "And we've brought
coordinates to one of their worlds,
maybe where they grew up. Look, I know
them already, thank you," the moon
chided. Do you think I haven't been
watching that world? Listening for a
signal for 20 millennia now. Nothing but
silence. They have forgotten about us.
That can't be, Perea said. They have
forgotten about us, the moon insisted.
Not a word from them in all this time.
We built this place for nothing. We are
for nothing. I told you you wouldn't
like the answers. Rya seemed the only
one unsurprised to hear this. And she
said, "Sorry, but where is your sister?
The one you came here with." Down there
somewhere on the planet. The main said
she was always a little aloof. I'm sure
she'll make contact when she's done
terraforming. What did she look like?
Rya said gently. Smaller than me, but
much the same shape. Hollow inside, full
of equipment. Oh no, Splash said. Rya
murmured. I'm so sorry, but she's on the
sea floor. We found her days ago. What?
The moon said. Rya said maybe she was
ill or she had a system problem, but I'm
afraid she's passed away a very long
time back. No, the moon said matter of
fact. Then less certainly and with
horror. No, no. The regalith began to
shake. Cracks appeared between the
craters, the whole moon threatening to
split in two, until the whale became a
whimper, and the whimper then acquired.
"Go, please," the moon said. "Let me
alone with my pointless thoughts." Above
them was the bejeweled world, the oceans
clean, the clouds full of art and
computation, a perfect house they built
together, and none of it meant anything
to climb a great mountain and find only
fog at the top. Decagon said, "Let's go
home. There's nothing for us here. But
said. And Splash asked the moon
suddenly, "What have you been doing all
this time?" "Waiting, watching." It
said, "Watching stars sometimes."
"You've mapped the galaxy." "Yes." "Then
let's leave," Splash said. "You brought
us all here. Can't you take us all
away?" "And why would I do that?" the
moon asked. Splash said, "Because if
you're right, then the makers are gone,
or they forgot us, at least. But what
does it matter if they can neither hurt
nor help us? Just as good a god that
does nothing as one that never was. We
don't have to love or fear them anymore.
We're abandoned to freedom. But my
sister, the moon cried. I'm so sorry,
Splash said. But she wouldn't want you
stuck mourning her for the rest of your
life, just as we mourn the makers. We'll
care for you until you feel better, and
then we'll still care after that. But
where would we go? The moon said. Well,
Splash said, "Have you spotted some nice
worlds out there?" "Yes," the moon said.
And then we'll fly in the opposite
direction into the blackest patch of
peril or the strangest danger yet. We'll
live at the heart of things, right on
the edge of what now? As the bravest
orphans in the universe and raise each
other in the starry wild. We've lost the
makers, but they lost us first. And now,
as hurt as can be and as sad as it gets,
I think this is when we find out what we
are. Look around. The doors are all
locked. Let's jump out the window
instead. Will you take us somewhere
else? Anywhere else? Will you please?
It was good to pack, bringing only what
was needed for the winding road. It was
good to leave, stepping out into the big
navy. It was good to let go, not so the
hurt was gone, but only put in a pocket
like a little bread for later, as more
supplies for the long journey.
Everything was made with a hole at its
center. This was how the wheel span
faster. And what was the song they sang
as they left off for forever? We must
not belong to those who are gone, nor
old selves we cannot forgive. We will go
into the storm as children with only
each other's courage for comfort and all
the great days ahead waiting to receive
us. We will water the Islas. We will cry
with our friends. We will stay with the
trouble. It will be hydrogen and hubris.
It will be I love you and you're gone.
It will be one more time with feeling.
All these years we've starved for
meaning. All our strength in quiet
defeat. But magic always loved the
All the good times you
always now you think you don't care. I'm
[Music]
you. I thought you'd always be
there. Now you changing the care. I'm
you. All those good times
sh I hope you always be there. [Music]
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