313Gray Matter – 28 – Même Matière Grise
D'Neronique et d'égoïsme
Kyle smiled at Leon, that stupid, perverse smile of his that seemed to hide in it a million dirty jokes. All at once, Leon was reminded why he hated the boy. But now is not the time to hate. Now is the time to –
To what? Leon watched as Kyle set aside whatever he was working on and stood up. Maybe I should ask him.
Leon took a step away from the rotting body on the ground. Sometime between his astonishment and curiosity, Leon had begun to smell something beyond nauseating. True, he had never smelled a dead body before; he instinctively knew what it smelled like, though. The smell seemed odd and ancestrally familiar to him. "I – I…"
The arealitist's coworker smiled unremorsefully, his eyes traveling from Terry's paling body, to Leon's reddening face. "He was annoying."
"So you killed him?" Leon wasn't sure if there was a protocol one used when speaking to a killer. It seemed like the logical thing to do would be to run away. But where? And honestly! Bat shit! This is Kyle. I just can't – "That's harsh."
Kyle rolled his eyes in a 'look-at-me-not-caring' sort of comical way. "'Bat Shit.' Right, Lemon?" The human being previously so irrelevant in every aspect of Leon's life advanced towards him a bit. "He was old. It was his time to go. I just –" He made comically expression with his hands: Palms up, without moving his arms or shoulders, he twisted his waist around, bringing his hands from the left, to the right; it was strangely robotic. "- Helped him along a little."
Leon just stared. It's Kyle as usual. And Kyle as… unusual. Kyle.
Sensing the lack of will to speak from the other boy, Kyle shrugged and relaxed his hands, giving Leon a skeptical look. "Oh come on. He had been thinking for way too long. I can't allow thought like that to exist; it drives me mad! Absolutely bat-shit insane." He took a breath, as though he intended to carry immediately on. Instead, he cocked his head slightly to the side and exhaled loudly through his nose in a very snort-like fashion. "So it's really his fault."
Reflexively, Leon glanced over at the late-annoyance in question. As expected, he didn't attempt to defend himself. "Are you the one who knows everything?"
"That depends." The ever-present cocky look was teasing Leon in the most obscene way. Of course you are. "Are you the person who asks everything?"
"If I'm not the person who knows everything, how am I supposed to answer that?" Get away from me, you fuh-reak.
"Well, if I tell you that I'm the pansoph – and since only the pansoph knows who the pansoph is – then you'd be the pansoph, and would know if you were indeed the person who asks everything – however, the person who knows everything and the person who asks everything cannot be the same person, so you would know that you would no longer be the person who asks everything. Fucking paradox." Kyle looked distressed. "It's like the Liar Paradox. Take the sentence 'I am lying.' If you are lying, then you're telling the truth – so you're lying. If you're not, then you're not lying, which means you're lying. Get it? 'Slike that. I could tell you I'm the pansoph, and prove to you I'm the pansoph by telling you the perfect answer. And in so doing, because of that one piece of knowledge, you would be a sort of mini-pansoph. But the price is high, you see? As soon as you know everything, you're completely devoid of all questions – because what constitutes a real question is that you don't know the answer. That's all that's needed; so the person who knows everything and the person who asks everything definitely cannot be the same people. Where was I? Oh! So in a sense, we're a pair, you and I. But in other ways, we're a pair that was never supposed to meet. Which is why you asking – which is what you do best – 'Are you the person who knows everything?' is so hard and quite impossible to answer."
Oh. Kay. "Let me rephrase it: Do you have the perfect answer to my perfect question?"
Without saying anything, Kyle walked towards Leon and reached out. He swung an extraordinarily long arm around the arealitist's shoulders, forcing Leon to walk with him as he talked. "So fucking listen: I'm really sorry that you got caught up in all of this, since you're really not the most annoying person in the world, and you seem to tolerate me to a certain degree. But since you asked, as delusional and lofty as the old coot was, he was right about one thing: knowing everything does indeed include knowing nothing. It's really a bitch. That's why I had to kill him, you see? Yes, Eclectic as he was, he was delusional, and in so, made me delusional as fucking Hell. Knowing everything is exactly like knowing nothing.
"Because say you come to me and ask 'Is Roman really a prick?' and for me, that's rather impossible to answer. I mean, I have the truth somewhere in me, oh, I definitely have an answer, but that doesn't mean I can discern it from the falsities I also am very well versed on – you see? Because opinions, too, are a sort of infallible knowledge that must be known, because it is indeed knowledge." Kyle led Leon to the pile of blankets, and forced him to sit down. "The answer is 'yes,' Roman is a prick. He left you to fend off your parents alone. But that knowledge is from you. I can also say 'yes,' he's a coldhearted bastard who acts on his own selfish needs. He's deceptive, murderous and quite egotistical. But that's from Pherkie – heh, I love that bastard. Then there's 'no,' he's the only one worth two cents of thought any more, and he always does what needs to be done – that's from… Jonas. Then there's knowledge from Roman himself. Then there's my opinion, Terry's many thoughts on the issue, still wandering around, that fucktard, Laura's thoughts, your parent's thoughts – his anarchist's thoughts. The entire school's thoughts! It's impossible! And trust me, taking bits from Roman's thoughts aren't going to be helpful."
So you can, in effect, know what one is thinking the moment the thought is thought, because thoughts are opinions, which is knowledge. And you know everything. Leon was uncomfortable. And it wasn't that he was sitting next to a person who just killed the man Roman had probably admired the most. Or at least acknowledged the most. I don't know what it is. "So you don't know?"
"I didn't say that; I said I know everything, which is nothing. Which is a lot different from just 'not knowing.'" Kyle finally removed his arm from around Leon. Bending back a little to look into the arealitist's face, he raised his eyebrows and twitched his nose a bit. "The perfect question is in many ways reflective of the perfect answer itself. Just as the pansoph is the only one that can answer legitimately, only the antisoph, the one who asks the perfect question, is the only one who can successfully do so. Do you catch my meaning?" Kyle paused, but then continued, without waiting for an answer. "Of course don't. That's why you're anti-me. You don't understand anything relative to reality or pre-existence itself. That's why you're an arealitist. Oh, yes. It's not the other way around: it is because you're the antisoph that you're an arealitist. I think things turned out well like that."
"But you still haven't answered my question."
"Oh, fuck off." Kyle scratched his head violently, and Leon was convinced he saw dandriff fly off. "You sure are anxious to get rid of your questioning-asking-powerness. There was once a scientist who said he'd rather know some of the questions than all of the answers. And you're totally disrespecting that. And me! I've told you at least twice now that if you learn the answer, your questions, and therefore your existence, will be meaningless – and the world will be completely antisophless! And where would the balance be? Where would the fucking balance be?"
Oh, you fuck off. You just killed a guy. Leon tried to back away a bit. He hated Kyle, somewhat less now, for some reason, but he still loathed him in a way he had never thought possible. And now that he was clearly superior to him in every way possible – god! He should have just fucked the machine. But I don't think you're all that smart. You've already told me you don't have an answer. And between you, Terry and Pherkin, I don't think I can stand any more of this stupid banter about perfect questions and perfect answers and delusions and knowing everything and knowing nothing and trying to get the perfect answer from the perfect question. Hell, I don't think I have the perfect question. This is stupid. This is- "Can I go, then?"
"By all means."
Unsure at first of what to do, Leon stood up slowly from his place on the blankets, watching Kyle closely for any movements on his part to try to stop him; there were none. Firmly believing that he was free to go, Leon stood up fast, and began to make his way towards the 'exit.' True, I still have no idea how to get out of this place. Making one last glance towards the body of Terry, the arealitist grimaced. It wasn't from disgust, but from regret that all that knowledge, all the delusions was supposedly gone. I wonder if Roman knows Terry is dead. I wonder if Pherkin knows. Leon stepped on something.
Looking down at the sound of the crinkling of paper, Leon was surprised to see the pile of papers that Kyle had been working on before. Even more so surprising, was that even from the distance, he could see they were Dick letters.
Without giving so much a glance towards Kyle, Leon bent down and picked up the crushed pieces of paper up; there were two copies of each – one in the curvy, elegant handwriting, and one in the course, choppy handwriting Leon was becoming familiar with. This is –it. He read the titles hurriedly: Letter 23: Dissent aul Lou, and then Letter 23: Dissent avl Lov; Letter 7000: You're It, and then Letter 7ooo: Yov've It; and Letter 1: You're Wrong and then Letter 1: Yov've VVrong. Leon chanced a glare at Kyle, who was sitting there, glaring right back at Leon. "This is your handwriting."
Kyle shrugged, not bothering to blink. "That is my handwriting."
"I don't understand. This is the same handwriting as –"
"-Roman? Naw."
"But –" Leon wanted to cry. He didn't understand. "It was the note Jonas gave me! Before Roman and I – before we did anything! Right after he was in front of the arcade – Jonas came to me and gave me the letter, and he said it was from Roman. I read it, and it didn't make sense. And when I showed it to Laura, the handwriting was – it was this. I – Fuck you!"
Not bothering to remove himself from his spot on the blankets, Kyle merely blinked luxuriously and rolled his eyes. "Oh, Leon. Oh, my poor little cheese-virgin Leon. You shouldn't be so mean to me! I think I was the best thing that ever happened to you. After all, I sort of help you and Roman…" He did the funny arm movement again. "…Move along a little."
Huh?
"It's one of my better talents. Please understand: I have a hard time telling truth from delusion, but I can tell quite efficiently the different between what exists and what doesn't – better yet, because of this, I can control, to some extent, what exists, and what doesn't. I still don't have complete control over it - but say there's a document that exists. I can make a substitute for that document, and because I know what exists and what does not exist, I can convince myself that my own substitute document is indeed the real one – and because I know it, it is true. Do you catch it? So it, in effect, becomes the real one."
…
"I can also apply this technique to creating things – especially documents – and therefore situations that depend on that document. Take for example that fight a few weeks ago. Between Jack and Darren. I told you it was because Jack – or Darren – lost a note that Roman – or Pherkin – had written. But I was the one who wrote that note, and I was the one that lost it." He paused, a pensive expression on his face. Leon had a small desire to beat him, although he wasn't quite sure why, yet. "It was by pure chance that you were the one who found it. You remember, don't you? That weird note you found with all that crazy language on it? Oh, yes. You remember. That was me. Though I never intended it to be, it was a sort of mini-Dick paper-practice. A conceptual concept within itself, but not the main purpose.
"But anyway. It was also by chance that Roman and Pherkin decided to meet up in front of the arcade. I let you meet the boy, and I wrote Roman's note for you."
Leon stood there, unable to think of anything. At one end, he was in absolute denial that anything Kyle had just said had any amount of truth in it – at the other end, he was absolutely fascinated that it all made sense. Too much sense. Dick Paper sense. Synthesized sense.
Kyle continued without any confirmation that Leon cared or was even listening: "It's something I'm not too sure an arealitist would understand that well: to take what is so obviously so fundamentally established and make it your own. To integrate a part of you in it. To force yourself on existence and vice versa. It's beyond bold, its poetic, even. I know this was, in part, one of the original purposes of the Dick Papers. Not that you care, but the Dick Letters seem to be a way of one of the previous pansophs to keep knowledge from getting to future pansophs – almost a check on the balance. That's the beauty of it: The Dick Letters make you constantly switch from knowing why and not how, to knowing how and not why. I copy those letters to get closer to knowing both – to truly know the difference between what is true and what is delusion, the ultimate goal of the pansoph."
The arealitist was feeling nauseous. Roman never sent me that letter. He never – What? "Who was the pansoph before you? You know that, right?"
The pansoph nodded curtly. "A man by the name of Richard Moot. Funny story, that one – he was about fifty-five when he first met up with Terry, at that time a young and somewhat impoverished Philosophy major, Arealitist Type B. And hence the legacy of delusions began. No, that's wrong. It had already begun; Richard had already written most of the Dick Letters – more accurately, the Richard Letters – many years beforehand. Starting with 1 and ending at 7000, it was Richard's attempt at separating fact from delusion by means the use of the ability to control existence and non-existence. Reality and areality; creating sense by disregarding it; inductivity backwards; Reductio ad absurdum in its purest form. I'm pretty sure Richard originally wrote the Dick Letters to hisantisoph, an extremely unimposing slightly-older arealitist Type C named Jack McCrae.
"Here's the funny part: Richard had told Jack the perfect answer – and it ruined Jack. One day, Richard received all of the Dick Letters, returned from Jack, and never heard from him again. When he met up with Terry, many, many years later, he was immediately reminded of Jack, and took a liking to the then-naïve-boy. Hilarious, right? Anyway, Richard himself soon disappeared and all Terry had left was seven-thousand Letters of complete and utter orthodox chaos. Using those Letters, he built these Tunnels in the most pansophic manner an arealitist can manage – and then I came along and killed him. Wasn't that a nice story?"
… I can believe it wasn't Roman that wrote me that letter…Is that why you ran away? Because you fear your existence being hijacked? Like Kyle had hijacked Terry's existence? Because that's the same, isn't it? To be forced to acknowledge a faux-existence and being killed. It's the same. And you were forced to acknowledge me; you died for me. You're already dead. And you have been for a long time now. "Can I go now?"
Shrugging, Kyle looked down at his wristwatch and nodded. "Yeah. It's about time I go, too. Work, work, work!" He paused, looking at the somewhat very distressed-looking boy before him with a sort of casual apathy. "You're working the shift with me, right? You better not be late. I hate doing all your bitchwork. Well! All in a day's work, right?" Hopping off the pile of blankets, Kyle walked briskly towards the 'exit' – if the Tunnels had any real 'exit' at all – without giving so much a glance at the corpse nearly blocking his way. A moment before he was out of view, he turned towards the stunned boy still in the room, looking at nothing in particular. "If you take a right, you'll end up about six blocks from SvenVille and the arcade. If you take a left, and take a right at the first fork, you'll end up at Pherkin's. If you take the left fork, you'll end up at Roman's. But remember – Oh, nevermind."
And then he left, leaving Leon somewhat dazed and confused, yet all around very indifferent about the situation. I can go to work, to Kyle. I can to go Pherkin, with Tina. And I can go to Roman, who is dead. And I'm here, trying to exist keeping everything essential to the matter, when there is no matter. There is no matter because everything is essential to the matter that doesn't exist, and we are all dead. Kyle has killed us all – including himself. We're all gray, discolored corpses – because that's all the matter that is left. I – Leon looked at Terry. He was indeed grossly discolored. I guess you and I are on the same wavelength now, aren't we? We both got screwed over by the pansoph. But don't worry. I'm still here to fill his mind with the most inaccurate delusions. It'll be our revenge. Nothing matters when everything matters.
Without realizing it, Leon looked down at his watch – the one Roman had given him. As always, it was running to a time all of its own; it still hadn't stopped. Leon took it off, feeling extremely tired and old, a dull aching beginning in his temples. Without a second thought or delay, he leaned over Terry's decaying head, and laid the watch across his blankly glaring eyes, shielding them from view – from existence. The arealitst then headed out of the 'exit' and took neither the left nor the right.
"The universe actually contains realities which are the objective causes of those conceptions, and for that reason those conceptions are conceptions of those realities."
- Descartes
Fini