Confessions of an apparition

Varsha Roysam
Sep 1, 2018 · 5 min read

“The most we can do is to write — intelligently, creatively, evocatively — about what it is like living in the world at this time.” If there’s one person whose words I take dangerously without question, it is Oliver Sacks; it is his words I often run to, to fill some colour in a paled life. This time however, something in my mind stirred uneasily, caught guilty of something.

What is it like living in the world at this time? If Sacks were to ask me this, I’d look down at my feet, abashed and disappointed, for I wouldn’t have an answer. Knowing him, so to speak, he would then ask me in the softest, kindest, voice, why I think I don’t have an answer. Well, Ollie, I’d say, it’s because I don’t think I’m living in this world.

Was I abducted by aliens? Oh, I wish. At this point, I don’t have the confidence to apply for abduction anyway. And I hate filling out forms.

In my lowest, the analogy that comes closest to my ‘self’ is the weight of that small piece of paper in a chemistry lab on which a compound is weighed. The weight of this paper is negated because it is irrelevant and can only cause errors in the weight of the compound itself. The belief that my self is worth negation for its inability to contribute to the sum of the human society, will always be alien to me; because to believe that a thought of such spite can come from within is to give up all hope for self-worth.

So, where am I living, if not in this gloriously flawed world we’ve built for ourselves? I live in a simulation where this gloriously flawed world has freed me of the expectation to interact, engage, and contribute. An expectation that has grown to become a burden, whether by virtue of its own great weight or my inability to carry, or both.

As guilty as I am of thriving in this simulation, I cannot discount some of its advantages. Firstly, as it mirrors reality, I still have a grip on it and am not, for instance, an enthusiastic member of the Flat Earth Society. Secondly, by virtue of being a simulation, it enshrouds me from reality itself. Thirdly, if in the future it is so proved that we, a a species, are elements of a simulation created by a more superior species, I will be immune to derangement and will have the last laugh.

My situation, however, is closer to a glitchy augmented reality than a freeing virtual reality. The risk is the same as getting hit by a car while playing Pokemon Go. But there is some solace in knowing that my harsh confrontations with reality have come from nobler pursuits than a fire-spitting Pokemon. There is, however, no justification strong enough for choosing to live in such a reality simply because the risk of losing ground is too great. I have realised that.

In myself, I see the tragedy of a dispassionate youth; and I take no pride in this alienation. The world I see around me is constantly cultivated, terraformed, or destroyed, activities that are ironically synonymous regardless of how one looks at them. I see my peers flying in either to save or to destroy, in theory or in practise. I see. I watch. I wish I could in the very least say I was watching and learning. All I watch is myself wishing to be no more than an apparition. I watch myself as I let the world pass me by; and there isn’t a more paralysing sight.

So, Ollie, tell me, what can an apparition really say about what it’s like living in this world? It doesn’t feel, it doesn’t bleed; and eventually it will not be seen. And as much as I hate office parties, I don’t want to be an apparition.

Another person comes to mind who, like Sacks, kept a passionate account of his life, through its troughs and peaks. Bertrand Russel, at the age of 13, painstakingly reasoned and detailed his transition from a God fearing child to an Atheist. He experienced and observed the loneliness of a rational mind in an irrational world. Both Ollie and Bertie, however, seemed to have a larger sense of purpose in their lives. Bertie stopped himself from jumping over a bridge so he could finish his Principia Mathematica; and Ollie spent his life understanding the Mind and being an intricate part of the human condition.

I have squandered the first quarter of my life span in a simulation. I don’t intend to look for a purpose at this point for it has always seemed like a futile thing to do; since I don’t know what I’m looking for I can’t possibly know what tool to use in order to find it. I don’t want to be the fool spending her days with a metal detector on the beach when the purpose of my life may be made of cheap polymer.

There must be a simpler way to live. To keep living. And to live in a way that one doesn’t have to wait until they are in their death bed to make sense of it all. Maybe my life can be a series of brush strokes that can be appreciated simply for the patterns they create, and not for holding a profound meaning within them. I don’t know.

We are driven to survive like every species on this planet but what our consciousness may have given us in accession is the drive to document our survival. That’s what cavemen did, that’s what scriptures do, that’s what science does, and that’s what Ollie and Bertie did; even Kafka for that matter took the pains to document what he believed was a miserable life. This to me is strong evidence that there must be some value in living a life and documenting it. The outcome is collective course correction and growth, but this too can become a distressing goal for an individual as growth for a species can be in a direction that stretches infinitely.

Is there, then, value to be gained in the process? Possibly. Will I eventually come to find that there is no value after all? Possibly. And if and when I do, I can only hope that I’ll take a moment to mourn and live on until I stumble onto something else to occupy my existence.

Varsha Roysam

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Hello. Should this be in first or third person? Should I write about my qualifications or personal traits? What if neither impresses? Can I get a blueberry che-