Monday, April 16, 2012

"Everything the Same"

Supermarket aisles, Camper lined up on both sides. Moving as one, looking for something other than the best deals. One eye spots uncharted movement heading for the back door. The Camper break into a run. Something is trying to avoid them, and whatever it is, it isn't a Camper.
Not yet.

Thirteen minutes later, five blocks away, the figure escapes down a stairway. It's headed for the subway. What trains are coming? The H train? The Camper driving stops the H train before it reaches the station. No way for the figure to escape now, not unless it's willing to risk going onto the rails. That'd be suicide.

Suicide, however, seems to be on the menu this evening. The fugitive on the run dives for the train tracks, feet seeming to merge together in some disturbing cascade of emotive flourish. Whatever the thing is, it's not a Camper, and it can somehow become a train.

The H train takes off once more, chasing after this abomination on the rails.

This continues for eight long minutes before the Camper stops driving the train, realizing the figure hasn't been seen for a while. Did it even exist? Better question, does it exist anymore?

128 miles away, in a cabin in the middle of the woods, two Camper-- formerly male and female-- are sitting on a couch in front of a fireplace.

"Do you need anybody?"
"I just need someone to love."
"Could it be anybody?"
"I want somebody to love."

The creature known as the Camper has no fundamental need for these two beings to be gathered in solitude. They are both the same consciousness, and they have no need for numbers, not when the whole world is now Camper. Still, memories exist within the collective brain bank, memories of marshmallow pies, flowers, and human interaction. Memories of euphoria experienced when oddly specific criteria are met.

These two Camper were chosen to be the test subjects. The criteria requires one male, one female. Solitude is optional, but highly recommended by the former-human knowledge.

"For the benefit of Mister Kite, there will be a show tonight on trampoline."

Particular poetry has been shown to evoke positive reactions, as well. The Camper wish to experience this joy for themselves.

Now the show begins.

Music plays. Both Camper can recount every note and detail to the songs and their creation, and if given instruments, both Camper could easily perform without sheet music in front of them.
The male lays on a bed. The creation and dimensions of the mattress are elementary to it.
The female lays on top of the male, cold eyes staring into itself.
Upward motion.
Downward motion.
Upward motion.
Downward motion.
"Oh yes."
Upward motion.
Downward motion.
"Oh goodness."
Upward motion.
"This is fantastic!"
Downward motion.
"How did I ever go without this?"
Upward motion.
Downward motion.
Upward motion.
The female dismounts. Not a drop of sweat had left either body.
Neither Camper is thinking of the other. Both are thinking the exact same thought:

I know I did that correctly; the knowledge is right there, in front of me. I followed every detail. Something was missing, all the same.

The Earth turns, all the same.
The people exist, all the same.
Very little is different, all the same.
No passion play; everything the same.


The world rotates several more times, the nations flooding and flowing with water and structure.

In a desert country, two former humans stand fifty feet away from each other, massive armies behind each, men standing line-by-line and ready for war. Not a single toy wonders what the point of fighting is when every mind is the same consciousness, for the Camper all know exactly what this conflict's purpose is.

Sound off, one two three.

Muskets fly, spears pierce, feet trample, limbs make contact, bruises develop. Not a single voice is heard; there is no need for exclamation in a world where all think alike. Pain is all in the mind, and what are a few limbs to a being with all the arms in the world?

Thirteen minutes later, only the leader Camper are left standing. Neither had moved an inch in the duration of the skirmish, their faces remaining stern as the philosophies they share. The desert is littered with bodies, and not one of them is dead, only sleeping with holes in their hearts.

At this call of silence, the corpses rise and begin their exodus, following the leaders to the next town, where they will repeat the skirmish identically, a shot-by-shot remake of an artificial war film.

This is how conflicts are settled: Systematically.

In an urban country, a stadium stands, filled with a quiet race of Camper watching the game, concentrating on every nuance and detail. Down on the field, balls are kicked around, boundaries are crossed, figures dash from side to side. Points are scored, boards light up, and the crowd cheers together at every goal, mouths closed at every other instant.

The tactics of the game run through every mind to the point of becoming second-nature. If a Camper in the crowd were to stand up and run onto the field, she could seamlessly enter the game and not a play would be out of place.

A blimp flies overhead with the winning team's name being advertised to the people in the bleachers. Every character knows who the winners will be, and every part of the crowd knows the details of every participant of the blimp. Not one mind ponders on the purpose of advertisement in a world where all are one; all the coaches and all the players and all the producers and all the audience knows what this event's purpose is.

When the game is won, the predicted winners are carried out by a mob of fans with emotionless faces. Parties are held, celebrations roar in every household. Every detail is carefully planned and executed by the same mind, never questioning the point, always certain in the answers sought.

This is how conflicts are created: Systematically.

Everything the same.


The world breathes the same. The waters still the same. Nothing has changed a bit; your life continues the same. History repeats, everything the same.

And every mind thinks, the same:

What of that enigma that was no Camper? What of the beast with the wheels that disappeared down this tunnel? Will I ever see it again? Will it ever allow itself to be seen again?
Will I ever learn its secrets?
Come a year, everything the same.
Come a hundred years, everything the same.
Come a thousand, everything the same.
Come the end of the universe, everything the same. Now to play it all over again. Now to try once more for 
the passion play. Now to try once more to learn, to escape.
Once more, with feeling.

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