10-Millimeter Reflection

For the first time, the introspection paid its dividends, as the evening clouds slid, much like some butter in the heavens godly pan, radiating the crimson polish of the day’s contraction. In the opposing sky, the intangible black threatens its reveal. This threat usually would hasten Opie’s promenade, but his newfound enlightenment through divulging in long, drawn out, self-reporting, and armchair-esque philosophical thought has caused a longer-than-usual exploration. His pace along the street swayed and lurched, consistently inconsistent, tantalized by the shifting weight to correct and compensate; this being a repeated cycle of shifting and compensating in a general forward direction, making good pace along the sidewalk.

I must look dazed, he thought, I must look unwell, they will think I’m sick, they won’t believe me.

Opie had just moments ago found something resting against the curb, completing his thoughts. In his hands he cupped a metal marble, glimmering in an almost perfect atomic sphere, catering itself to the ridges of Opie’s hands, rolling, bouncing, vibrating with each of his unplanned wobbles and sways. His eyes locked on, and intent on placing the final pieces together as to how this marble fits into reality, or vice versa.

They will not believe, how could they? Answers to questions that began with the great Thales proclaiming the ultimate substance, I will be praised for this find, rightfully, praised.

He would have salivated if these thoughts were projected into the ether. To him, speaking these thoughts would solidify them as truth, as they would assume some higher area of the corporeal plain, tangible to those listening. Although, he knew the importance of holding it in. All it takes is one daring klepto to steal and themselves claim to have discovered the fundamental idea of creation.

Just ten millimeters maximum across, no obtainable points of reference on this foreign sphere. For example, a door hinge has crevasses and bends, scratches and smudges from use. This has none, with the circumference from any angle, fading off, like some oblivious and constant tug. Am I holding oblivion? No, of course not. Just a part. Like a sculptor took the void and chiseled himself a slice. Or more geometrically related, some ice cream parlor employee scooped it out. That which lurks to the peripheral of human perception just now has been viewed, the thing-in-itself. In reference to me, I must be two-thousand things-in-itself.

Unrelenting thoughts seemed to dance forward of his brow and involved unimaginable depth or assumed unimaginable depth. These thoughts opined on its ‘self’ and conversed, encouraging its own essence. Opie took credit for his thought’s materialism, yet the thoughts almost had a life of their own, disconnected from the graspable yet representing a deeper consciousness.

Like endless rain into a paper cup, thank you fab four. This is beyond Kantian ideas, this is impossible to him, yet here is human perception perceiving the self-described thing. It isn’t some structural essence or reason flowing through all. Is this Schopenhauer’s Will? No. That indeterminate oxymoronic being, some existentialist Taoist expression of the truth. Uptight yet so blatant in his misguided thought. I would spit on him. I can’t touch Will if it is the thing-in-itself, why can I touch this? The thing-in-itself is physical. Maybe cryogenic dark matter. “I can’t imag…” I can’t imagine what makes up the space smaller the ten millimeters.

Obviously spinning. He cupped the marble in one hand, and prodded with the other, feeling the coldness of his index finger. Taking closer looks, searching for points or markers of the marble being other than what he thought. He saw the transition of light from one position to the other reflect off the marble as well as the environment’s parallaxes being warped and exaggerated. It was inviting due to its familiarity.

Of course. A reflection of reality. What is smaller than ten millimeters is also larger than ten millimeters, or exactly what is larger than ten millimeters. Everything is a fractal of itself from the base point of this thing-in-itself, ten millimeters. Maybe it is cryogenic dark matter? The more I think of it, I can’t sway this cryogenic dark matter idea. Ok, this is definitely cryogenic dark matter in my hand, and its most important quality is that it reflects the universe. This is potent in intellect. “Everything is r-reflected, including…” Including the place I live, the place I walk, and I myself. It is all reflected at the ten-millimeter point. How are three dimensional shapes reflected within space? Must be that three-dimensional shapes are to be reflected anywhere at their edges of course, but I feel I would have noticed it, the reflection of third dimensions within my three-dimensional home. No, the walls are filled. Someone must have known this information already as they fill the walls of houses with insulation foam. This prevents reflection. Of course, if reflection isn’t prevented you are doomed to the same pain infinitely, the pain of life. Schopenhauer got that right, “about all he’s worth.”

A young woman was walking her own straight and narrow way opposite of Opie, across and parallel to the road, remaining clutched to a teal leash, holding back a dog of proportional size to Opie’s idea of two-hundred things-in-itself. Her steps ricocheted off the town houses, paginated to Opie, and given enveloping dominance over the setting. The evening was shifting to night at an unapologetic pace, something Opie only noticed when he broke concentration off the marble to look at the young woman across the street. He smiled a full teethed smile.

“Best head home! The dark is unforgiving! Also, cryogenic dark matter could be the thing-in-itself so make sure you have foam insulation in your walls!”

She gave a fake laugh, half ignoring and half misunderstanding the importance of Opie’s message as they passed each other.

A fool. “A dumb enigma of social impotence…” mama was right, I do tend to over share. What if someone heard? What if she understands the implications of what I behold in my left hand? Never speaking would be the safer choice. Never give the dullard a chance to share. Even if it is about the necessity for foam insulation within our walls. But I am no dullard, I discovered the universe. I will get back to this.

His prodding became more aggressive, volatile, trying to peak deeper into the marble. Opie would rub it between his hands then release, halting himself where he stood to inspect, imagining the hand ridges like rivers and the marble flowing down them. He also listened to the marble to see if the self-describing material explains itself auditorily. His limping frolic would continue as he began rubbing again, not much different from an addict at a craps table.

No smudges, “impossible for something that is itself…” Sounds like the world around. Of course. It reflects the universe, so noise is reflected too. “I am reflected…”, so my voice is also reflected, but if I’m being reflected, that’s why I can’t hear the reflection of my speech. Have I been speaking? Just in case, “Speaking…” yes hypothesis holds true. Am I supposed to be speaking? “Yes, because I’m not a dullard.” Wait, how interesting, my own reflection does speak back. Like a snake greeting its own tail. “Hello tail…” so interesting, my tail, I should write about my tail to share this conversing with myself in the reflection of the universe. “Incredible…the p-poster child for the axiomatic material is a reflection…” only ten-millimeters of space occupied. “My own didactic principles spouted back at me as truths!” Like Descartes wax, except I got it on my first meditation. My own voice is truth, the only truth that is necessary, a reason for this to be bestowed upon me. “T-the poster child for axiomatic material! Int-t-tangible but not for me, I am discoverer of the ten-millimeter reflection! I am safe with my thoughts and with my foam insulation! How could a d-dullard speak to his own universal reflection! A tail! My wax!”

For safe keeping, Opie placed the marble in an empty bottle of loxapine and continued to rave and rant along the forgotten promenade through the dead evening. The streetlamps would soon come alive, erasing their long and dull shadows. Vision will be that of a sonogram to give Opie a stretched metaphorical conclusion of rebirth.