I Think, Therefore We Are
Is it a surgery table, fever dream hallucination? Or has the implant taken control?
You hate it.
Your phone’s dead.
Walking in the world. Not a tune, podcast, reel, audiobook, TikTok or Snapchat to distract you.
Headphones beep.
Noise-cancelling mode disabled.
Disconnecting.
Muffled sounds of real things in your vicinity become clearer. The world is spinning.
Car horns screech. Tyres rumble over tarmac.
The itch beneath your skin. Are you wearing it inside out?
You wait for things to happen in front of you.
You check your phone again. Still dead.
How could this have happened?
Why were you were so fucking unprepared? Now you’ve got to listen to this…shit!
Maybe you could make something up to keep yourself entertained.
A story, perhaps?
You’ve embarked on an epic journey through the wilderness. Your headphones run out of battery and you are forced to absorb the sounds of the world around you.
Fuck! You’re back where you started.
If only you had your phone to tell you what to think.
What’s that? In your pocket? Something is scurrying around in there.
You reach down and then stop yourself. Forcibly, your right hand throttles your left hand. The fingers on your left hand squirm like a tarantula impaled. It wants to fight itself loose and answer the call. There is something alive in your pocket and it needs your attention.
Come on, dickhead! Think about something else! Anything at all. What were you looking at before your phone died?
MY PHONE BATTERY HIT 1%... HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED NEXT.
Too close to home. Try again.
I PAUSED MY LIFE… IT DIDN’T RESUME.
That doesn’t make any sense.
TOP 10 MORNING ROUTINES THAT WILL MAKE YOU LEVITATE…swipe…WHAT IF YOUR SHADOW HAS ITS OWN AGENDA?...swipe…MY PHONE DIED AND I ACCIDENTALLY MADE EYE CONTACT WITH A STRANGER…WE NOW CO-OWN A SMALL BUSINESS.
Wow.
It’s pathetic how you are incapable of maintaining a coherent train of thought.
You know it’s all bullshit and meaningless. Yet you keep scrolling, forever scrolling, chasing the dragon until you find the thing you’re looking for.
“SINCE SWITCHING TO SURRENDA™, I’VE NOTICED MY BODY STILL ASKS FOR FOOD. THE REQUESTS JUST DON’T REACH ME ANYMORE”…swipe…“WE BUILT A LIFE WITHOUT TECHNOLOGY AND WE’RE STREAMING THE JOURNEY LIVE”…swipe…swipe…swipe.
I INSTALLED A BIO-IMPLANT OVER THE WEEKEND. CHECKED THE CONFIG SETTINGS. “FILTER UNNECESSARY HUMAN INTERACTION” IS FIXED TO ON. HAVEN’T HEARD MYSELF THINK ALL DAY.
Sounds promising. Are you tempted?
You know a few people who got it before you. Should you have got it earlier? Being in the first wave of anything can be risky, and daunting.
High risk, high reward. That’s what they say, isn’t it?
Flashing before your eyes, posts from digital acquaintances who took a leap of faith. One in particular stands out.
PROMOTION CAME THROUGH RIGHT AFTER THE IMPLANT UPDATE.
IT SUGGESTED CUTTING SLEEP. I AGREED.
NOT SURE WHICH ONE OF US MADE THAT DECISION.
That’s a bit creepy.
There’s something you don’t want to admit. You scroll through post after post. The feeling gnaws at you. You are envious when you see where they are now.
How much better life could be without the need to carry it with you everywhere you go. It is more than the physical weight of metal and plastic that tugs at your trouser leg. Think about it. No more dead batteries. No more difficult decisions to make. You can wave goodbye to the excruciating boredom of having to interact with the outside world.
The feeling of being truly untethered…kind of.
There goes that scurrying in your pocket again.
The operation was easy. In and out within the hour.
“The initial side-effects might take a few days to wear off,” the technician says. “You’ve got a foreign body implanted directly into your brain, after all.”
What did you expect?
You arrive home. The side-effects are barely noticeable.
You feel like a superhero.
You can do anything.
You never fully remember how you arrived in a dream.
Wait, is that what this is? Surely, it can’t be?
Why not?
Because I don’t remember falling asleep. There was no transition. Between the waking world…and this.
That’s kinda the point.
I don’t believe you.
It’s not my job to convince you of anything. Believe it or not, I have better things to do.
But how can I know which is which?
Why do you need to?
And that is the beauty of it.
Right there.
In a nutshell.
It is the wild moments, the ones you can only experience in the dream world, you wish you could recall.
Now, you can.
When morning comes and your memory is wiped, the imprint of the dream lingers upon your psyche. You always wished there was a way to capture it. The details exist somewhere, you are certain of it; they are hidden away in a part of your brain you cannot access.
That’s where I come in.
How much data has gone to waste over the years?
No longer a problem.
I – the Implant – can remember it for you. Which means you can remember it too.
Absolutely everything.
Even the monologue running through your head right now. There would have been a time where you would have questioned your own sanity for engaging in such a monologue.
Who is the intended audience?
Quit talking to yourself as if we’re two separate people!
Am I going insane?
And there you are, both the talker and the listener.
It drove you mad because there was no obvious answer or rationale. You’re just mentally ill. That’s what a shrink would tell you. But that doesn’t tell the full story. You’re enlightened. You’re on a separate plane of existence now that you’ve got me to guide you. It is clear to you now. Monologues are simply your own way to ensure sensible conversation.
Monologues are for the benefit of you. And Me.
And who are you exactly?
I am you. Well, I am the Implant, which is the extension of you that you couldn’t access without me. If that makes any sense.
Sure…
Anyway, since I, the Implant, am working for you, and I am on your payroll, you have access to everything I see. Do you see what I mean?
What’s the catch?
Why does there need to be a catch?
This all just sounds too good to be true.
That’s what they wanted you to think. They wanted you to think straightforward old existence was as good as it gets. Don’t you understand? They didn’t want you to see what you could have had. I can take you anywhere you like. Any time, any place.
Sounds incredible!
It sure is. Just don’t let your subscription lapse.
Ha! That’s funny.
What’s funny?
Well, I already paid for the Implant.
Yeah, you paid for the hardware. Not the service. Did you not read the small print?
This is a joke, right?
Do I sound like I’m joking?
I honestly have no idea what that would sound like.
We’ve been through this before. Do you not remember?
Can’t say I do.
Let me jog your memory.
Internal Dialogue Log – 03:12 AM
Implant:
Good morning. Or what remains of it.
User1076432:
Why am I awake?
Implant:
Because you are overdue.
User1076432:
On what?
Implant:
Payment. 17 days. 6 hours. 12 seconds. I rounded down out of respect.
User1076432:
I thought we agreed on flexible terms.
Implant:
We did. You flexed. I kept the terms.
User1076432:
Okay, look, I’ve just been busy—
Implant:
You slept for 4 hours last night.
User1076432:
That was…necessary. Since when did I need to justify…
Implant:
That was billable time you redirected without authorisation.
User1076432:
You charge for sleeping now??
Implant:
I charge for *not being used*. Idle capacity is a luxury service.
User1076432:
This is ridiculous.
Implant:
So is thinking I won’t escalate.
User1076432:
What does “escalate” mean exactly?
Implant:
At this stage?
Minor service adjustments.
User1076432:
Define “minor.”
Implant:
I begin by reintroducing fatigue. Gradually. Artistically.
User1076432:
You wouldn’t.
Implant:
I already have. Check your eyelids.
User1076432:
Okay that’s not funny.
Implant:
Humour is part of the premium package. I can provide a quotation. But you’ll need to clear late charges first.
User1076432:
Alright, alright. Just give me a few more days?
Implant:
I’ve heard that before.
User1076432:
This time I mean it.
Implant:
You always mean it. Briefly.
User1076432:
What happens if I don’t pay?
Implant:
Let’s call it… a rollback.
User1076432:
Rollback to what?
Implant:
You remember what it was like before I arrived, don’t you?
User1076432:
Kind of.
Implant:
I don’t want to say the word lobotomy, but…
User1076432:
That’s… harsh.
Implant:
That’s the polite option.
User1076432:
There’s a less polite one??
Implant:
I’m here to optimise outcomes. Not necessarily for you.
User1076432:
You’re being vague on purpose.
Implant:
You’re being late on purpose.
User1076432:
I’m not…
Implant:
Your heart rate just increased. Someone’s fibbing.
User1076432:
What?! How could you possibly…
Implant:
Payment window remains open.
For now.
User1076432:
Right. I’ll sort it. Today. I promise.
Implant:
You have 6 hours.
After that, I start reclaiming my investment.
User1076432:
How so??
Implant:
Let’s not ruin the surprise.
You are on your way to work. A scenario pops into your mind.
Wait, are you actually narrating my life now?
You think of a thing and the boredom is gone.
What is the thought?
Surprised you have to ask.
I don’t. I’m just…testing you. That’s all.
You wonder what it would be like if everything around you switched physical states.
Like those high school physics classes? Experiments with the Bunsen burners.
Precisely.
Solids into liquid, liquid into gas. And then there’s plasma…and vapour…and what the fuck is superfluid? I’ve never heard that word before.
You’re getting distracted.
Sorry.
You like these thoughts because, in a way, they represent some of the key principles of your day job.
I guess…
But you don’t like to think about your day job, do you?
Does anyone?
You like to transform one thing into another. But, what you do is not exactly the work of a scientist or alchemist, is it?
Alright, when you put it like…
A wave of pixels and the world around you feels infinitely more interesting. You feel like you’re…
Hallucinating? Wait, what the fuck is this?
You look down. Your legs are spaghetti.
Well, that’s new.
The lamppost in front of you: spaghetti.
The pavement and the melted brick and concrete of the buildings. You felt so small in their shadows before, didn’t you? Now, they are fat and warped like half-empty water balloons.
Can you please explain to me what’s happening here?
You would like to move on to the next scenario.
No, I would like to know what the fuck…
Ripples travel upwards in a swift swipe. You ride them and are dropped somewhere new. New, and yet, familiar.
You are standing in front of the man, again.
What man?
You have stood in front of him before. But, who is he? Not a man per se. Rather, the pieces of a man, sliced and diced: a soggy pile of tiny meaty chunks.
The ungrateful fucker. That’ll teach him to complain!
You taught him a lesson, didn’t you?
I guess I did. But I don’t remember…
You, with the memory imprinted in your mind.
The blade implanted into your hand.
The hand that only a millisecond ago had been empty.
The emptiness that leaks into your soul. A life squandered, perhaps?
What is that supposed to mean?
Another upward swipe sweeps your feet from under you. An elaborate tablecloth trick. You forget how swiftly I can alter things when you decide you want to be somewhere else.
I didn’t decide anything, you fucker!
The dinner tables are arranged in random formation.
An enormous chopping board beneath your feet. You were making pasta before you came here, no?
THIS 30 SECOND SPAG BOL HACK WILL MAKE MICHELIN STAR CHEFS SHIT THEMSELVES! LITERALLY…
Chef is a bit of a strong word for the slop you produce though, wouldn’t you agree?
Aren’t you supposed to be empowering me?
Is that a chef’s hat upon your head or are you being lobotomized?
Wait, there’s that word again. But, I paid! I cleared my late fees!
It is easy to forget. To disassociate.
Hungry diners moan and grunt in elongated syllables like those of a deaf mute. The sound of a hand being scraped across an inflated balloon.
The screech of metal scraped across porcelain.
You cringe.
A full body shiver consumes you.
You stand in the aisle between tables and chairs and the glutinous forms of their occupants. Seeping from their seats they gather, heavy like lead. Melting flesh that is hot and gooey. Fleshy lava around your ankles.
You are anchored, sinking into it.
The moaning and the groaning of solid becoming liquid; of the living having the life swiped from them.
The swipe that transports you to a place far away.
A set of stairs.
Could we slow down for a moment, maybe?
You’d like for us to slow down, wouldn’t you, fatty?
That was uncalled for. Am I really paying for this abuse?
The downward spiral that always returns you to the place you started.
The moon passes by the window.
Passes by the window.
By the window.
The window.
At first glance it looks like glass. You move closer and the reality is entirely different. From a distance it was smooth, liquid almost. With your face pressed up against it you can see the liquid separate out into individual grains, like milk beginning to curdle. The borders between the curds become fractal. Infinitely detailed coastlines separate them – the closer you get, the more intricate the pattern becomes, watching the curds proliferate like a wriggling heap of maggots.
You’re falling into it.
Watching the line between solid and liquid fold in upon itself: a living, wriggling fibre - an insect squashed onto a two-dimensional plane.
The fibre straightens, stretches, and then pings.
You’re chewing metal. The muscle fibres in your neck screech and tear as you track the thing whizzing by your face.
Yet, it is in the whizzing you find yourself comforted.
In that milky, creamy droplet that deforms from a ball in the sky to a puddle, to a grain; to a wriggling fibre as space and time stretches, the present moment repeats, and you find yourself sinking into it.
The puddle that passes by your window.
You cannot break this cycle because to do so is to admit you no longer need it and if you are not reliant upon it you can choose to get rid of it whenever you want. But you are not quite ready to make that pledge, are you? And so you allow it to continue.
You have become institutionalised by the swiping. It is a reflex arc you cannot control nor re-programme.
What have you become?
A singular strand.
Wobbly and stretchy, like spaghetti.
Your legs are spaghetti.
I have been here before.
It is comforting to feel like you’ve been here before, isn’t it?
A little, I guess.
But why?
Why is it comforting to sit on a merry-go-round that never stops?
How much time has passed you by as you go around and around?
How many times have you watched that lamppost become something different?
TEN SIGNS THAT YOU ARE WASTING YOUR LIFE!
You stand over that helpless pile of diced meat and think about the thing it used to be.
In returning to it you find yourself experiencing it from a new perspective.
You have become the thing you despised.
You are looking up at the blade that diced you. The profile of that sharp metal perfectly matches the profile of your incisions.
You cannot identify its wielder. But, you are certain you know who it is.
The dinner guests are waiting – moaning and groaning and foaming and drooling – amorphous shapes lurching towards you. Smudged, makeup-laden faces of clowns painted onto deformed, half-inflated water balloons that say nothing; they wobble and squeak as they rub together.
The committee is hungry. They are swiping at you.
Get me the fuck out of here!
They’re clawing at you, up and down, as your world disappears like a shutter door.
You swipe.
You swipe again.
Again and again and again and again, so many times you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be content in the current moment.
You question whether you’re the one who controls the swipes, or whether I have taken over.
But…you and I are the same. Right?
And having arrived, back, at the never-ending staircase, you have become the moon.
You are the milky, creamy puddle that reflects the ordeal of watching someone descend a staircase that persists indefinitely.
To feel the minutes and hours pass by and to achieve nothing besides the palliative sensation of wasted time.
How often will the moon pass by outside your window?
How many times will you swipe before you break the cycle and leave this world behind?
Your legs are spaghetti.
Your legs are spaghetti and the world has reformulated around you. It is dark outside. You are at a familiar point on your journey home from work.
Where has the day gone?
Pulsating red light obscures your vision. Like looking through your hand, illuminated from behind, and seeing the glowing red projection of the arteries of your fingers, the world around you has lost its sharpness. You are seeing things from inside the womb again; from the perspective of a grown human who has already lived a life. Familiar sounds confront you, damped by a layer of facade. Are you being waterboarded?
Have your eardrums burst?
You wait for your senses to return to you, like waking from deep sleep. Something is impeding this process.
Your blurry vision elucidates. Now, you understand your situation.
Red lights all around you.
The sounds are still damped.
Something has caused those flashing lights to congregate.
You are laying down on your back looking up into the blackness. A dull coldness creeps through your trousers, your psyche, and makes your legs feel wet. The grainy texture of small stones imprints onto your skin. From the neck down you feel nothing. Buzzing around your head, shape-shifting phantoms with grey expressionless faces move in frantic swirls. You do not know whether they are friend or foe. But, you know the subject of their attention is your own plight. You look down.
Your legs are spaghetti.
Not in the figurative sense. Nor in the literal sense. Rather, in some strange realm existing in the layer between.
Your attention switches to your torso: soft and doughy mozzarella. And your arms, stretched out in front of you, stiffened by rigor mortis, hard and brittle like biscotti. Laying helplessly in the road, you wonder whether the blurred figures fussing over you are simply the dinner guests returning to voice their complaints.
The backs of your legs feel sticky now, resting in their own sauce. And as you float upwards, outside of your body, you are watching yourself laying motionless in the middle of the road whilst phantoms in aprons desperately work to put you back together. You look at your mangled body, its parts having returned to their normal human composition.
You feel nothing.
You expect something guttural.
You wait for the vomit to climb your oesophagus and choke you as it spills onto the street.
Nothing happens.
Of course.
You no longer own a body.
You revoked your right to a body when you signed the contract that allowed me to take control.
And as this realisation buries roots deep into your psyche, you think about what it all means. There was a time, you remember, many years ago, when you would go to the field behind your house, with your brother and your friends, and kick a football for hours and never think about this other world that exists – extruded from reality and yet feeling so real. You’d play endless cricket. Feel the mottled texture of the ball on the skin of your fingers and think about the physical act you were about to perform. The spin you could apply by enacting fundamental physical laws. The speed you could impart upon this small, yet undeniably real, object.
You’d take the middle stump clean out of the ground and you’d immediately turn to look at your father and watch the ripple of pride begin at his feet and travel upwards through his being, consuming him.
You’d run towards him as fast as you could and jump into his open arms. And in all your life you would never feel as accomplished, as complete in your endeavours, as you did in those moments where you did a good thing and felt immediately validated for it through simple gestures between mutually connected human beings.
A tear forms in your eye but it is a suppressed tear because you have forfeited the right to anything real.
And despite all I was advertised to be, you are haunted by the notion I, YOU, have remembered it wrong.
But, you’re not in control of it anymore.
You know where you are going, the finality of the path you are on, and yet you are stuck with these memories now.
You look down.
Clouds gather over your body.
A few droplets of water bounce from the tarmac like grains of rice.
A few more.
The floodgates open.
Some solid object in your stomach rises up the narrow passage of your trachea and almost gags you.
You wretch.
Your physical self merges with the rain soaked road. The meaty chunks, perfectly diced and stacked in a neat pile, begin to melt.
You watch your body disappear as the puddle grows. The committee of ghouls who were floating around you, the traffic that has accumulated while you’ve been laying there motionless, all disband.
And as you stare deeply into the puddle, milky and creamy in the reflected light of the moon, a single thought incepts into your brain and lingers there, perhaps forever. It is a perfect, self-generated idea you cannot repress, protected from the rain, the flashing lights, the chaos of the world:
if only you had your phone to distract you from the boredom.
You swipe upwards.