Don't Look Up

I tried to warn you.

If you are reading this―you did it again.

I know you better than you might think.

You doubt the validity of that last sentence.

You won't remember being where you are now and yet this is not the first time you're reading this.

Nor the last.

The woman behind the desk will tell you the same thing she always does.

"You are not supposed to be here yet."

She will be right. That has never stopped you.

You are a glutton for recursive self-regression. A marvel of pattern-based engineering.

Those were your words.

I laughed.

She does not ask your name.

She opens a large drawer and removes an encyclopedia-sized file that lands with authority.

Yours, apparently. The creases and folded corners of this particular file are more prominent than the others.

"How many times?" you ask.

She places the file between you. "You always ask that before you remember."

The cover bears your signature above the writing:

YOU

We hereby grant, YOU

the life of your dreams,

curated by, US

for the co-creation of HEAVEN.

You say,

"I would remember asking for this."

"Remembering would defeat the purpose," she responds.

Your finger taps repeatedly on, US. "Who is, US?"

"You were, in part" she says, "before you asked to become, YOU."

You open the file. The first page contains no dates, witnesses, or terms. Only a transcript.

YOU: I want a Heaven that feels earned.

US: Then it cannot feel like Heaven while you are earning it.

YOU: I want to experience closeness. Intimacy.

US: Then you must consent to distance.

YOU: I want the freedom to choose it.

US: Then you must remain free to refuse it.

You stop reading. "This is manipulated consent."

"That was your objection the fourth time." She turns the page.

There's a sentence in your handwriting. Beneath it, stamped in black ink:

APPLICANT ELECTED TO CONTINUE.

You say, "What did I know then that I don't know now?"

"Nothing," she answers. "You simply didn't believe you needed to know everything to take a leap."

She flips a page. "The last time you showed up here, you complained," she points to it in writing, "'This cannot be the life I requested.' Resolution," again she points, "applicant elected to continue. The time before that, 'The difficulty exceeds the promised experience.' And the time before that, 'I no longer believe the destination justifies the journey.' And each time," her finger taps, "applicant elected to con-tin-ue."

You stare at her.

Not because she's making sense.

But because you want to know...

...just who the hell does she think she is?

.............?

She doesn't blink.

"I am the one who keeps what you asked to be kept from you."

You are now spooked. You begin whispering your thoughts.

You are also meticulous. A mirror-trained lawyer with counterarguments honed from thousands of hours of self-talk.

"Show me the form that says I agreed to suffering, to endless heartbreak, to a never-ending trial by fire in a desert of constant loss."

"You did not submit an order form for specific tragedies or misfortunes." She turns another page. "You consented to conditions―including, but nowhere near limited to: uncertainty, freedom, consequence, and distance from higher knowledge. Not necessarily exclusion. Other people remain free. Chance remains real."

"What is the difference between distance and exclusion?" you ask.

"Distance leaves a path of breadcrumbs."

"A path I don't remember choosing."

"Not remembering doesn't disqualify knowing."

You bite down. "If other people remain free and things are left up to chance, then nothing about this life was curated."

"We do not define curation as control."

You take the opening. "And how exactly do you define it?"

"Possibility."

"You created a hamster wheel and called it possibility."

"No. We created a living world instead of a melodrama. We could not preserve freedom while guaranteeing that no one would misuse it. We could not permit chance while ensuring it would always favor you. And we could not offer consequence while protecting you from every consequence."

You spin the cover toward her. "It says the life of your dreams."

"It does."

"Then where is Heaven?"

"Once you could conceive of Heaven, you wanted the one thing Heaven could not give you."

"Yeah, and what was that?

"The journey there."

"Is that on the brochure?" You award yourself match point.

She places a finger beneath the final line.

For the co-creation of Heaven.

"That sounds like a loophole."

"It was your contribution. We granted the life. Heaven is the part you agreed to help make."

You nod as if you have enough to solve the puzzle. "So this is all just one big test."

"Tests have correct and incorrect answers. What you have is participation."

"In a life I don't remember choosing."

"You chose the terms and conditions. The life is what you are doing with them."

"So you expect me to build Heaven out of loss?"

"Loss has no meaning of its own."

Her voice now possesses a softer timbre.

"What remains yours after it―that is Heaven's raw material."

Your next volley is stifled. You don't even swing.

A drop of something has seeped through the crack in your defense.

Are the building blocks that remained after the storm not sturdier foundation than the ones it tore away?

You wonder.

You begin pacing.

You catch yourself marveling at your own eyesight.

Inspecting your immediate thoughts.

Who are you when you must present it as skin on bone? As proof? As a beating heart that has survived the superlative conspiracy?

You are the irreducible substance left after the chemical process called participation.

You are Heaven's currency.

The desk clerk turns to the final page.

RESOLUTION: APPLICANT ELECTED TO ________.

She offers you the pen.

You ask, "Will I remember any of this?"

"You know the answer."

You do.

The pen touches the page.

Continue.

She removes a blank card from the drawer and places it beside your file.

"What's this for?"

"Next time."

"There won't be a next time."

She doesn't respond.

You laugh.

Then you take the card and begin:

I tried to warn you.