Fake news! Fake news! Well dear reader, the Truth, the ugly Truth, the Truth like the fishing hook which impales the writhing worm: is that a member of my species—a modern being even of the educated and cosmopolitan class—has not the ability, nor the tools for discerning what is ‘real’ and what is ‘fake’ news.

Humanity has merged with machine. Life has been reduced to an endless series of zoom calls and individuals are as dependent upon screens as nations are upon oil. Information is constantly being filtered through ‘The Networks.’ Data is collected, digested, streamlined through an algorithm, an algorithm that decides what our screens show us.

We lend credibility to the sources which appeal to our biases. A certain kind of faith is needed when an individual seeks out information. A certain type of trust that we are not being misled.

But! I posit most assuredly that there is no ‘real’ way of knowing. At least, that is not scientifically — not with an empirical basis. For, when we cease to validate information with our senses, we cease being empirical. Again, when we trust an article, we must have faith that the ‘people’ behind it have made use of the scientific method and collected their information on an empirical basis.

Yet, there is no ‘real’ way to validate their retellings. And besides, what sort of people are these? They are empty silhouettes, personas, nuts and bolts of a great machine beyond their control.

And so, we scroll. Like puppets, like domesticated animals fettered to an assembly line of the dissemination of information. Fettered to our screens. Always to our screens. We know only what our screens tell us and we know our screens lie. Only we do not know when the lies slip into our feeds, or out of the mouths of our broadcasters.

Ⅱ A Dark Night

I am writing at my cold oak desk which I have positioned in front of my bay window so that I may look out upon the creek which runs through the forest and beside my house. On my desk I keep a pen and an antique—yet loaded and fully functioning—Colt Revolver. Tonight, I have chosen the pen.

Now, I am a scientific man—an empiricist—and in fact: I often go so far as to question the information provided to me by my own senses.

The prolonged isolation which I have endured under this quarantine has a way of playing tricks on the eyes. The ears too are subject to mysterious disruptions.

So it is, that because of the Novel Coronavirus, man has become so toxic that I avoid his contact at all costs. The virus would kill me, of this I am sure, I have a weak heart.

I see now that man's toxification was inevitable. Still, before the quarantine was imposed, I was amongst the worms who squirmed endlessly in stagnant mulch. Now though, I have seen the rusted edge of Truth’s hook.

I have been drained of my blood and spilt my intestines over this matter of Truth. It is the voice of my blood which declares my essence as scientific. So, when I tell you that for the last eight months I have been truly, completely and utterly alone. I am to be taken at my word. I am to be believed because I report this information based on the data that my sensory organs have collected.

Still...a night ago as I was lying awake in my bed and the crickets chirped outside my window and the autumn leaves began to fall in the forest surrounding my house, I became quite thirsty. The night wore on and after hours of trying to convince myself that sleep was coming, my thirst became too much to bear. I relented, tossed my covers to the side with spite and went downstairs to get a drink of water.

Now, for the sake of recording this series of events with exactitude, it should be noted that I left my glasses at my bedside table. But this is not an important variable.

When I made it to my kitchen, I filled a coffee cup with water and stepped out onto my back porch. The woods stretched out into darkness and the shadows of Spanish moss hung like spiderwebs in the black night.

Then, a thing I cannot explain happened. It was inexplicable, it lacked precedent in every regard. I was out on my back porch looking at the shadows hanging from the moss when I heard something over my shoulder; I turned and saw my younger sister.

It was very late and yes, I admit that I was dreadfully tired. As tired as a sick man, but I was not dreaming. I stood on the back porch without a mask and had a conversation with my sister like it was a normal night, a night before the pandemic.

When I finished my water, I said, “Till morning” and went back upstairs to my room.

I did not consider for even one moment that something was strange about the appearance of this phantom. As to whether it was a figment of my imagination or something entirely beyond reason, I cannot say. I can only assert that my sensory organs must not have registered the truth. I was deceived, I must have been deceived!

Ⅲ Symptom and Illness

I want to tell you now dear reader, that I could not even become a fly. Not even a lowly fly who sits idly on the wall. I report despotically, that I have many times tried to become a fly, but that despite my best efforts, I could not even become that.

I swear to you dear reader, that to be too informed is an illness.

That to nurture your awareness of public phenomena is not only an exercise in entropy, but also a real thoroughgoing illness. And I am a sick man.

The Truth of the matter is that for the vast majority of our depraved and deplorable species, it would be sufficient to have one half of the plain human consciousness and to be free of the fetters of information. Carrying all this so-called ‘knowledge’ about the world is like carrying around a heavy rock in your gut. Not only the anguish of it, but the feeling of your innards being all muddled and clogged up.

For proof, look no further than the cultivated peoples of our technologically burdened 21st century. There is no wonder that depression, drug addiction, and suicide run rampant in our culture.

These are all symptoms, symptoms of the illness of information.

It is logical that any sensible person would become depressed upon learning of the record breaking fires which are spreading through the West Coast. Or the hurricanes and monsoons which grow stronger every year. Or the mass extinction of the planet's biodiversity and all in the name of Applebee’s and flat screen televisions.

I am after all a scientific man. I have examined the data, I can observe the trends, and therefore I believe in manmade climate change.

I digress. My point is simply to remind you that ignorance is the most ambrosial bliss.

Still, our species has a lust, an unquenchable avarice for information. And now, we are equipped with a handheld ability to satisfy this craving with the rapid movement of our thumbs.

It is true that in its origin, this endless quest for information was indeed a positive attribute. Our species wide superiority in cerebral power has been wholly fundamental in humanity's dominance over nature.

Now though, our relationship with nature has begun to cause mutual suffocation.

Our lust for information has made us into a cancer. A rouge organism which thrives off draining its host.

I repeat—this suffocation is mutual—for while we have begun to clog the airways of our host species, we are also cursed at having the information; the endless and entirely overwhelming information constantly flashing before our eyes.

Then, when this constant nagging, this nat buzzing in our ear about fatalism and inevitable demise becomes too much—too overwhelming—we turn to drugs in order to numb the voice and divert our attention elsewhere.

Yet, there is only one true escape and of course I am referring to suicide.

Oh how often I have considered suicide. The truth is, as wretched and empty as I am, I am a coward.

But enough, eh, I have written quite a lot, but what have I explained? I have not picked up my pen in order to scribble on about my self-loathing. No, I have taken up my pen in order to produce a discourse on awareness.

Ⅳ Artificial

Information has a new enemy. This new threat makes the old lies of politicians and the mass influx of foreign manufactured Facebook accounts look like the play of children.

Now, we must contend with computer generated audio and video: deep fakes.

This technology has come a long way from photoshopped pornography. The deep fakes of 2020 are the products of artificial intelligence. Computers take gargantuan quantities of information, synthesize it, and spit out a mirror image of anyone you would like, saying anything imaginable.

The results are not just believable, they are downright impossible for you, me, or any other consumer of information to discern a difference — to differentiate between ‘real’ and ‘fake.’

People are worried about other countries using this technology to meddle in our elections. Well, they should be worried.

However, this is just the tip of the iceberg. In China they have already begun using these deep fakes in their state-run news agency.

Fake news! Fake news! How can you believe anything you see? How can you trust your senses when artificial intelligence can manipulate an image, reconstruct audio and pass it off as authentic? Such a hopeless pursuit, to sit with the fruit, and fail to acknowledge the root.

Ⅴ. Repetition

It occurred again — the inexplicable.

Tonight has been wicked to me. Regardless, it should be noted for the sake of scientific authenticity, that I did indulge in drinking a bottle of red wine. It did not start off that I was planning to drink an entire bottle. At first it was just a glass while I was fishing for my dinner.

Then, I poured another drink in the kitchen while I prepared the catfish I had caught. It is not that I need to fish in order to sustain myself — in fact I have supplies and rations to last at least another year under quarantine. I must also admit that it was an excellent bottle. An Argentine bottle which I had been saving for a special occasion, but I have better more expensive bottles which I can drink on the holidays.

So, I was indulgent, and why not? I sat down and ate my fish as well as the vegetables that I had prepared from the garden. While I ate, I continued to drink and when I was finished with my dinner there was only a glass and a half left.

I decided right then and there to finish the bottle off.

I was never drunk at the table; I only felt the alcohol once I stood up. I tried to do some reading, (it was Montaigne, a detail which I have no doubt is of incredible interest to you.) And when that failed, I stumbled over to the couch and put on the television.

The program was odious. Two talking heads, or should I say two malignant tumors: arguing about the European migrant crisis. Images flooded the screen of thousands of men, women, and children washing up on Mediterranean coastlines. Fleeing wars, or draughts, or wars caused by draughts.

I pointed the revolver at them from the couch and imagined putting holes in their cheap suits. Then I put the gun to my own temple and held it there until I was forced to admit once again that I am a coward.

After I put the revolver back, I began to pick at a scab on my forehead. In my drunken solitude I used my fingernails which have become overgrown and dirty. I used my nails to squeeze and pull at my scab until it tore from my forehead and was buried underneath my thumb nail. Afterwards, the location from which I was picking was tender and bleeding. So, I lay back with a paper towel on my forehead, reclined and I closed my eyes.

The malignant men blabbered on in the background, but my drunken mind bolted off like a wild horse. It gave birth to so many chimeras and terrible monstrosities that I began to lose track and am now incapable of producing a reliable record.

Besides, I fell asleep. It was not my intention to fall asleep and I wish now that I had not. Still, there was no avoiding the matter.

When I woke I knew right away—like a sixth sense—that I was not alone in my house.

I grabbed a poker from the fireplace and walked into the kitchen. I must have looked a bit mad, brandishing a weapon with the disheveled hair of a man half drunk and bloody scabs stuck under my nails.

Yes, I was a bit mad, looking about and finding no one. I began to think that it was all paranoia. That I had invented the entire disturbance and had simply heard an owl or a fox and mistaken it in my drunken haze.

Perhaps it was simple paranoia. However, I did not give up my search and when I opened the door and stepped out onto my back porch, that’s when I saw her — my sister, smoking a cigarette on the stoop.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Smoking a cigarette,” she replied.

“No, I mean, why are you here? What are you doing at the house?” I said the house because even though I am the only one who has lived here in years it used to be our grandparents and was still referenced as the ‘family house’ before the virus struck.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’m asking you why you are here? What compelled you to come out here? Shouldn’t you be in the City? What car did you drive? I thought you relied on public transportation. Where is your mask?!” I had a lot of questions and I had not talked to anyone in a very long time.

“What, are you crazy?” she asked. And I hated the way it came out of her mouth, like venom. “Are you crazy?” she asked, “I’ve been here all along.”

I was not shaken up by this though; I knew what she was saying was impossible. No, I did not believe her, I did not even believe in her. So, I said, “You’re nothing. You’re fake, just another chimera. You're my mind playing tricks.”

“Your mind is playing tricks alright,” she nodded nonchalantly; and this little nod and unbothered comment of hers filled me with malice. The way she was acting superior, like she knew. Like she was the one with the answers.

I wanted to cast her away like Cain right in that very moment. I wanted to slap her face, but alas, I have never hit a woman; besides, she is my sister...

Instead, I took the fire poker and I raised it high above my head like a man with an axe who is about to cut wood. I raised the poker and brought it down on the brick stoop which she was sitting on.

The vibration ran up my hands all the way into my triceps.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you nuts or something?” she asked with a glare on her face.

I brought the poker down onto the bricks two more times after that and when I was done, I stormed back inside and left her on the front porch to smoke.

And now here I am, back at my desk with my revolver and my pen. Perhaps it is time I left the illusions of the surface in their proper place and further probed the depths of our discussion on reality.

Ⅵ State of Nature

It is humanity's natural tendency to seek answers. Life and death are full of opposites: action and inertia, pleasure, and pain. We are each thrown into this fire without a choice, forced to observe the ceaseless causation and wonder where it all comes from.

En apxh ἦν ὁ λόγος καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν θεόν, καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος — In the beginning there was a story, that story was of God and thus: that story was God.

For, it used to be that men and women lived as a part of the natural world. They lived and died by the rivers, foraging for their food in small bands. At night there was no television, there was no Instagram or Tik Tok. No, our ancestors told stories, stories that were more than malignant entertainment.

They were well aware that many aspects of this life are impossible to understand. Today, some of these things are explained by natural science (but more on this later.) Other questions are still debated by philosophers, for example: why does one fall in love? Is there such a thing as a soul? and what does it mean to live morally?

However, the myth makers had answers for all these questions. So it was that men and women, old and young, sat beside their flames and listened to what they had to say.

These stories provided a treatment for the throbbing pain of our questioning minds. And I assert most affirmatively that the main reason these myth makers were so successful: was that they were distributing a malleable product. The stories could change to fit a certain tribe's wants or needs. If a new question were asked, a new story could be invented in order to respond. In all orders and varieties—if the mythmaker had the intention—the myth could be told with purpose.

Because of this malleability, humanity functioned in a closed philosophical system. It was well known that when a deer was killed, a certain portion was to be sacrificed to the Goddess of the hunt and when a child was born she should be dipped in water so as to be purified. All was accounted for and the conscious was not plagued with the torment of unknowing.

The early myths were malleable like molten iron. That is, until the advent of writing. Then the myths solidified into a mold and became solid.

Still, humanity continued to question—always we question—wondering about our purpose, how we got here and what this world consists of. Yet, it is self-evident that the longer our species exists, the more information we are capable of stockpiling. Further, the introduction of new information is the most notable cause of ideological alteration.

Indeed, we have seen in the 21st century that answers to age old questions have the capacity to change dramatically in short spaces of time.

So, what does this mean for the myths of old which have hardened? It means that they’ve lost their vitality, that today they are nothing more than fossilized lifeforms. And, when these myths fall out of harmony with new models in thinking, a dissonance is caused.

At first, the system shows only the most miniscule of cracks, not even large enough for the light to come in. Over time though, these openings continue to grow and to grow until the educated man, the man of cosmopolitan disposition, can no longer unite his scientific understanding with the myths of old.

Then we return to the questions, we return to find that they have been unattended to and that they have festered. Then the same questions that humanity has always asked begin at once to torment and gnaw at us like hungry rats. We search out new systems that render sense upon the world, new systems with new dogmas and secondary causes which must be mistaken for primary causes if the system is to function. Because of course, the world must have rules, nature must have laws and our species must have meaning.

It is too much to live without meaning. Too overwhelming to contend with such dissonance. So, the sick individual may throw themselves into the work of natural science. This is a logical progression and a worthwhile undertaking. After all, I am a scientific man, I spent my career in-between a number of laboratories and always delighted in occupying my mind with the questions of “how?” or “by what means?”

Of course, you are now saying to yourself that this is all well and good. That humanity should be satisfied with the conclusions of natural science and mathematics. After all, twice ten is twenty—there is no need refuting it—and nature has no regard for your personal feelings on the subject.

But there is no meaning in any of it! None I say, and I can tell you. For years, 23 and ½ to be exact; I pushed aside the questions of philosophers, I laughed at them with malice and spite. I was a scientist, and my work was serious. I had a team, and we had a question in the field of biological anthropology (one which is far too complicated to provide a discourse on at this moment.) It suffices to say that every day we racked our brains, ran tests, came up with hypotheses, changed our methods, ran more tests, compared data; the work never stopped.

Then, one day we thought we had it — an answer. At least, we believed that we understood what caused a specific effect. We published our results, and our methods were replicated in labs across the country. Ha! What a beautiful day, we celebrated our achievement like gluttonous royalty, and I was the most hedonistic of all.

Then, when the party was over, I began to ask myself what it all meant? Our team made a great deal of progress in explaining “how,” a certain faculty functioned. It is also worth noting that we demonstrated a flaw in the previous models’ projections. In other words, the logic of the functioning paradigm was in stark contrast to the explanation of the question we set out to answer.

The older generation of scientists were outraged, and the people who did not spend much time thinking about the subject were confused and upset. For, they had accepted secondary causes as primary when clearly, they were not.

They yelled at us as if we were a team of astronomers who had argued for the first time that earth was revolving around the sun and not the other way around.

Despite our imaginings at the time—we were not special—nor were our findings. We had not located a primary cause, only opened another door in an endless labyrinth. We had exposed a current theory to be a chimera, a functioning system based on limited data. But, none of us were any closer to finding Truth. None of us were any closer to finding meaning in ourselves.

After my discovery was made public, I fell into a spell of melancholia. I had been a devoted atheist ever since my scientific commitment. Yet, I found I was yearning to embrace a relationship with mysticism. It is embarrassing to admit this, but this record must—above all else—be recorded as a reproduction of the Truth.

In the midst of this melancholia, an echo in my head repeated, “All is without meaning,” and so I took an early retirement at my family estates, and why not, I am in no need of money.

Besides, here I have the privilege of engaging myself calmly, quietly, and privately in metacognition. After all, what else does my mind have to concern itself with — besides itself.

Ⅶ Contagion

Blast, I see after reading over these pages that my egotism has once again led me off course. For, I repeat—I repeat with emphasis—that we are discussing the news.

My point dear reader—although I am sure it was lost on you—is that our cosmopolitan disposition creates a species which is forced to think and act in a very peculiar way. We are not like any of the other animals who simply act in accordance with the demands of their bodies. The lion goes out on the hunt because it is hungry, the eagle builds a nest so that it can support a mate, but humans believe in strange concepts such as Justice and Truth, and go on to pursue careers in law or science because of these ideas.

Furthermore, it is true that the men and women of the justice system hold conflicting beliefs as to the definition of Justice. They go to war with one another over the freedom of the accused.

These individuals of activity have most assuredly fooled themselves. I should know—but enough about me—let us engage the political class. For, it is self-evident that because of their narrow mindedness, they have fallen for the illusion of secondary causes which are disguised as primary ones.

Now, you are probably accusing me of choosing these most hideous of individuals in order to appeal to the bandwagon fallacy. Since it is true that every individual in cosmopolitan society has some negative feelings towards politicians, my words will attract readers like feces does flys. That you will have no choice but to agree with me out of spite for politicians.

But, since I have beat you to this accusation and put it in plain terms above, it cannot be sanctioned against me. For now, even the most unsuspecting reader will be aware of such a shameful tactic.

Regardless, I beg you to analyze the politician. They are governed by a set of values and these values cause them to champion certain causes. The communist believes in inherent equality and therefore fights for the redistribution of wealth. The capitalist believes that the ‘free market’ should determine the distribution of wealth and therefore combats the communist at every opportunity.

But what can be said of these primary causes other than…

Hold that thought…the last time I was at my desk I dropped my pen there. I was ashamed and disgusted by what I have written. After all, I lost focus and my notes have become nothing more than static ramblings.

I took the papers out to my screened in porch and decided I would mull over what was to be done with them over a glass of whiskey.

“Perhaps I will burn them tonight in the fire,” I said to myself out loud.

And since I was out back on my porch with the wooden chairs seated in a circle around me, I began to converse with the chimeras of my past and imagination. The setting reminded me of my holidays of old, when the whole family would gather at the house. So, I drained my glass then went back to the bottle and said: “I will take another drink uncle Dan. Ha! Remember when we went out on the boat and you ran out of gas halfway back to the house? You put the rope between your teeth and said you’d swim it back and I believed you would, I really did believe it and I was spiteful—full of malice—when the other folks came by and towed us home.”

“How dare they,” I took another drink.

“How dare they,” and I proceeded to get drunk and my memories spilled out with the alcohol and filled the room.

“We should put on some music, it’s not a proper party without music.”

“Music, I agree,” and I turned on some Nina Simone because Auntie CC always loved Nina Simone. So, I drank and talked with my memories until it got late and I stumbled into bed. Then, before falling asleep I looked down the barrel of my gun and laughed.

I was awoken by a crash. From my window I could see a silver fog which hung in the balance between the moon, stars and my property. The music had stopped, and I distinctly remember not having turned it off. “I'm being robbed,” I thought. “What is this world coming to?”

I grabbed my firearm and headed downstairs to confront the potential COVID carrier. There was a shadow darting about my screened in porch and a malignant, drunken impulse guided me to pull the trigger.

The explosion caused a shout, I went to the crumpled body and discovered it was my sister. I had shot her in the leg and the concrete where she was bleeding was already stained red.

“God,” she yelled, “God, you really are crazy! What were you thinking?”

I did not respond. In full disclosure I expected her to disappear. Instead, she laid there: writhing, and cursing me. I made my way over to her and it was only after I touched her that I considered her existence legitimate. That I considered her to be ‘real.’ She was more than just a chimera; she was flesh and blood and I had shot her.

I knew then that I had to emerge from my quarantine. I needed to take her to the hospital.

I carried her to my vehicle. I was apologizing now: “I’m sorry,” I repeated, “I thought I was being robbed.”

“You’re nuts,” she swung her fist into my chest. “You fucked up bad this time.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

There was a stench in my vehicle — a foul stench. A dead mouse had curled up on the floor beneath the steering wheel. Its eyes had been eaten away by maggots. I nudged it out onto the dirt road, rolled my windows down and put the car into first gear. After all, it could have been carrying the COVID.

Once the thought of the virus entered my mind I was seized by paranoia. We were entering the eye of the storm—heading towards a hospital—with the pandemic surging.

“Do you have a mask?” I asked her.

She looked at me like the question made her sick. She was pale, she fainted. I shook her and she came to but remained in a daze.

Fuck, I thought, she’s not going to make it.

I called 911. But, I didn’t have any service. I sped down the road; I was frantic. I was talking to myself out loud about the COVID and the hospital.

My sister began singing in a low voice and I sang with her. Together we sang all the way to the hospital. I almost felt human...then we arrived.

There were guards and traffic directors outside of the hospital. It had been filled beyond capacity and since there were no open beds in the building, the government had set up temporary tents.

A man in a hazmat suit came to our window and told us to head towards the third tent.

“She’s been shot!” I yelled, what did I care if I was making a scene.

“I understand sir, but there are too many emergencies for the hospital to deal with at the moment.”

“She’s going to die if she’s not immediately attended to you...you mindless bureaucrat. She doesn’t have the COVID God damnit, don’t send us to a COVID tent.”

“Please sir, there’s nothing I can do. You’re only wasting time.”

“God,” I sped off, “God, please help us.”

At the third tent there were hundreds of bodies lined up in cots. I knew my mask was not going to save me, but I pulled it tighter to my face all the same. I carried my sister inside and approached a tired looking, old, black nurse.

This woman acted with a speed and precision that I am sure saved my sister's life.

Later I had a run in with the police who wanted to assure that there was no foul play involved in the accident. But, my sister did not care to press charges and so I was spared a jail sentence.

A few days later she was discharged from the hospital; I picked her up and have been taking care of her ever since.

Today though, I have been experiencing the onset of symptoms. A sore throat, a dry cough and as I have been writing...a fever.