You can say that a being, place, or thing exists if you have evidence. Hard evidence, such as those they use in law cases, with the exception of witnesses. You cannot say that a being, place, or thing does not exist. Why? Because you cannot prove that it does not exist. Can you prove that the voices a schizophrenic person hears are just a trick of the mind? That those words were never spoken and a speaker for those words did not exist? No.
A boy, recently turned man, seemed particularly keen on discovering the true neurological origin of hallucinations. All of his papers display the words “Wallace Jian Shao” in the upper right-hand corner, so I have been referring to him as Wallace to help me keep track of all these humans. Far too many bustle in the streets and reside within giant containers with simple maze configurations within for me to call them “Human 17” or “Human 6,100,275”. I apologize. I am getting off track, as I tend to do when the humans do not do anything truly entertaining to watch.
Wallace does not know of my kind. By the first paragraphs on one of his papers that he has left on a desk table, I can tell he would not think twice of the probability that I live and breathe as he does. I move around and have feelings, and yes, a consciousness. He simply cannot see me.
The disturbing part is not that I desire to follow him often to learn more about him and these strange interactions he engages in every day. Instead, it is that if I suffer or die, no one will know. Not a human, not one of my kind, and that is assuming that others like me exist. I hold onto the hope that I am not alone.
A few years ago, I discovered Wallace. At the time, he stood on top of some sort of rolling block of wood that he called a “skateboard” and traveled on curved metal ramps with no real purpose. He seemed to enjoy the pointless recreational activity, so I decided to stop and see what would transpire afterwards. Soon, his board flipped around, rode perpendicular to the ground across the wall, and spun in circles. Five other male humans also on the skateboards playfully bumped into him and slapped their hands against his. Energized, I came up to him with my palm up and fingers extended. I expected to make contact instantly. I did not see any distinct differences between he and I, so when my hand passed through his, I stumbled back and cradled my hand in the other. It was soft and solid, as it normally was. Questions of my own interpretation of the occurrence cluttered my mind. Surely I just missed his hand. I approached him again, aiming to “chest-bump,” which is essentially a name he and the others called a collision between chests. Wallace hit one guy after another with a wide smile upon his face. I joined in . . . and flew right threw him. It was as though all of my atoms moved out of the way when encountering Wallace’s and he did not even flinch.
For one reason or another, he developed an interest in what his people call “hallucinations”. Reference books in the library told of patients claiming they saw a crew of ghosts aboard a ship or hearing strange voices without anyone moving their lips. As he read them, my eyes opened. Was I a hallucination to them?
To be continued . . .
CONTENT BY BRIANNA G HARTE
Copyright © 2015 BGH. All rights reserved.
All people mentioned are fiction and none of the interpretations displayed in this writing are meant to serve as a psychological diagnosis or something to replace reason for cures.