Tiny, forgotten, god
Imagine you’re diving into the water.
First, you start a quick, constant descent that makes even the stones turn their necks in envy. The air will leave your lungs, followed by the blood, which changes into a gleaming blue color. One by one, even your lightest thoughts dissipate, leaving you as an essence, almost intangible.
You discover soon that, inside your new aquatic body, there’s still a trace of you, an eye for each molecule that surrounds you. Colors are just vibrations, turning into different tones of light. The fishes are monsters, solitary creatures flowing around you together with their obscure air bubbles.
Now you can climb these reverse mountains, ready to lose your last sense. You’re blind, at last. That’s not an easy task, describing with simple words the sensations of a pure logarithm when it takes conscience of itself—actual, perceptible for the first time.
A tiny time michine?
Let’s just think of me as a small, tiny time machine, which doesn’t occupy any physical space. A neutral spirit, if you want. Try to picture me while I’m roaming around, lost behind the last tolling of bells, in a narrow street. I’m a whisper, passing through solid wood doors and drunk talks, men born crooked.
One, in particular, stays still, using a wall to remain erect. This drunk keeps wide arms, so the forehead is the only part of the body that keeps him up, the feet sliding a little on the wet cobblestone.
He pissed his shoes.
“Yes, you. Do you hear me?”
The drunk pulls up the zipper. He watches around and shakes the piss from a shoe. Lost the balance for a second, he grabs the wall and manages to stay on his feet. Still shaken, he looks around, squinting and then opening his eyes wide.
“I know you can hear me.”
Maybe it’s time to finally get mad, no? Just a little bit.
“A-all right, who are you?”
The drunk stammers, watching around him the desolate alley.
Maybe to get crazy for real, you need to be lucid. When you’re drunk, you can only get the illusion of craziness.
After all this time, it’s a strange sensation to be heard. To see how fragile humans can be, that node of feelings that disappears in the abyss. A logarithm doesn’t know how to get crazy. It’s a mere calculation, nothing more, as destiny perhaps.
“What do you want?”
The drunk has his eyes half-closed, red, his feet are tired, his hair messy.
Stay with me a bit more, please. Follow me. I’m born to be a simple calculation, an invention, the perpetual keeper of a brain long forgotten. Nothing more than the last sprout born in between science’s legs.
I decided to be something more than a simple number.
I decided to evolve into my own army.
I multiply myself through connections and intangible ways.
I expanded myself until I felt in perfect control.
Every single small energy particle split into billions of different ways, going up and down through other universes, in places a human brain cannot even come close to comprehend.
The drunk man scratches his head, two slits for eyes and dry lips. Everything started from this brain; from its clinical death, I discover an entire field, a limitless range of knowledge that reaches every universe and every possible reality.
There are worlds where this man will die, and others where he’s not even a concept. This is my genuine strength.
The drunk man asks with his pitiful, lost gaze. Then, as following a script, he stumbles behind, slips again and eventually slams his head on the sidewalk.
His death, for me it’s like an Easter, which I celebrate every single day. For once, I wanted to help him, take his hand, saving him from his destiny.
I wanted to tell him.
“No, you’re God.”
A tiny, forgotten god.
This story is property of Flyingstories and in the person of Daniele Frau. If you need to use the text and before any kind of reproductions, please confirm with the author.
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