Before we drink from the cup of fate
Let’s drink, my dear, from another cup, together
It may happen that a sip before death
The heavens will not allow us in their madness
Omar Khayyam
Spiritual Prisons
The meal was very delicious. It should be acknowledged that they cooked excellently here. At exactly half past two, as I had arranged with Nastya, I was waiting for her in the alley where the path to the mountains began. When Nastya approached, I didn’t recognize her very well. She was wearing a long dress to the ground made of some ethnic material. Her hair was braided, and a canvas bag with a long flap hung loosely over her shoulder on a cloth strap. Completing the picture were interestingly styled round glasses with a wide frame.
Wow!
I always go to the mountains like this.
And what's the bag for?
Oh, for herbs and various flowers. My grandmother, by the way, was an herbalist; she taught me a lot…
I always suspected that you, Nastya, were a witch!
A bit embarrassed, Nastya laughed. There was something suspicious in her laughter. Not in a hurry, but not lingering either, we began moving along the trail into the mountains.
Where are we going?
First, I will show you the dolmens.
Dolmens?
Didn't you know? They are the main local attraction. There’s one nearby. Let’s hurry, it’s about one and a half kilometers away.
We were surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. The air was filled with the chirping of crickets. Occasionally, wonderful views of the mountains and the sea were visible from the trail. Often, stepping off the path, Nastya would pluck plants, crush them in her hands, smell them, and stuff them into her bag under the flap.
Half an hour later, wiping sweat from my forehead, we emerged into a hollow between the hills.
And here it is, the dolmen. They say it is over four thousand years old, older than the Egyptian pyramids. What do you think it looks like?
I looked where Nastya was pointing. In the earthen clearing stood an even cube, made of heavy stone slabs. It was almost human-height, and on one side of the cube was a small hole, through which it was impossible to either squeeze inside or climb out. Only food and water could be passed through.
I think, Nastya, that it looks most like a prison cell.
— Oh come on, Mikhail, there’s no romance in it. The most authoritative archaeologists claim that these are cult structures. It's generally believed that dolmens are power spots.
— Well, prisons are also, in a sense, power spots, and in the most practical way...
— When a person began to build cult structures, it was a huge step in the development of primitive society.
— But when society stopped killing criminals and started giving them a chance to atone and reform, isn’t that a significant milestone in progress?
— I see I can't argue with you.
— Don’t be offended, Nastya. I’m even willing to admit that these might indeed be ritual structures for the development of spiritual qualities. But that makes it even more ridiculous. People build prisons for their souls themselves and spend their entire lives in them, hoping to find freedom.
Abstragon
Next to the dolmen, we noticed a stream. Stopping our argument, we tried to refresh ourselves with it and wash our hands, shoulders, and heads in the cold water. The stream was shallow, and it wasn’t easy. After struggling a bit, we decided to rest in the shade. Nastya moved closer to me. Lowering her voice, she asked:
— Mikhail, can I share a little secret with you?
— ???
— The thing is, although I am an employee at the Institute of Quantum Dynamics, I am also conducting some research that isn’t directly related to our institute's theme. I don’t tell anyone about it, not even Marat Ibragimovich. Otherwise, he would laugh at me, or worse – fire me. Should I tell you? Are you interested?
— Yes, of course, please tell me. I'm immensely interested in anything unusual, especially if it involves you.
We smiled at each other.
— Here are the results of some of my research.
With these words, Nastya pulled a small vial with a greenish liquid out of her bag.
— What is that?
— This is Abstragon.
— Abstra… Abstra… What?
— Abstragon. It’s a tincture made from local herbs of my own invention. It suppresses a person’s ability for abstract thinking.
— Why… Why would anyone need that?
— You see, Mikhail, I think there are a lot of problems on Earth because people complicate everything too much. Just like you programmers…
— Overengineering?
— Yes, excessive clutter of abstractions. Often to solve a problem, you need to think concretely, as it were, in accordance with the situation. This is where the abstraction can help. It focuses on a real, practical solution to the problem. Don't you want to give it a try?
I looked cautiously at the bottle with the greenish concoction. Not wanting to seem like a coward in front of the pretty girl, I replied:
— You can certainly try.
— Well, Mikhail, can you climb that rock?
Nastya pointed towards the sheer stone wall, about four stories high. On the wall, barely noticeable ledges were visible, and dried grass tufts were sticking out here and there.
— Most likely not. One could end up broken here, — I replied, realistically assessing my climbing abilities.
— You see, abstractions are hindering you. "Impassable rock", "A weak person without training" — all these images are formed by abstract thinking. Now try the abstraction. Just a little, no more than two sips.
I took a sip from the bottle. It tasted like homemade liquor mixed with absinthe. We stood and waited. I stood and looked at Nastya, she looked at me.
Suddenly, I felt an extraordinary lightness and flexibility in my body. After a while, thoughts started to fade away. I approached the rock. My legs bent in a strangely unnatural way, and grabbing onto something inexplicable, I immediately ascended to a height of one meter.
I remember the rest vaguely. I turned into some strange agile mix of a monkey and a spider. In a few moves, I conquered half of the rock. I looked down. Nastya was waving her hand. With ease, I climbed to the top of the rock and waved to her from the summit.
— Mikhail, there’s a path on the other side. Go down it.
After a while, I stood in front of Nastya. My mind was still blank. Unexpectedly for myself, I moved closer to her face, took off her glasses, and kissed her. Apparently, the abstraction was still in effect. Nastya did not resist, even though she did not partake in the abstraction.
We descended to the scientific town, holding hands. In front of the pine alley, I turned to Nastya and took both her hands.
— You know, we programmers also have a way to combat excessive complexity. It’s the principle of Keep it simple, stupid. Shortened – KISS. And I kissed her again. A bit embarrassed, we said goodbye.
A beautiful distance
Before going to bed, I decided to take a shower. I had sweated a lot in the mountains and wanted to stand under the streams of cool water. I saw an intelligent elderly man sitting on a bench near the alley.
— Excuse me, do you know where I can take a shower?
— You can do it right in the building, or in the new sports hall – that’s straight ahead. Or you can use the old showers, but you probably won't like them; they’re hardly ever used.
I was intrigued.
— Do those old showers work?
— Young man, if you have even a slight idea of where you are, you should understand that everything here operates around the clock.
Without a second thought, I headed towards the old showers.
It was a single-story brick building with a wooden door. A lantern above the door flickered in the wind on a flexible suspension. The door was unlocked. I entered. I fumbled for the switch and turned on the light. My expectations were met – before me was a classic standardized shower, the kind that used to be widely built in pioneer and student camps, sanatoria, pools, and other facilities.
My body shuddered with excitement. I don't like the description of paradise where a person lingers in a garden, occasionally eating apples while trying not to meet any snakes. I wouldn't last a week there. The real paradise is here – in old Soviet showers. I could spend an eternity in them, in those shower stalls covered with chipped tiles.
Usually, in such showers, we used to have fun with friends. Taking one stall each, we would sing some iconic song together. We especially enjoyed singing 'Beautiful Far Away.' The fantastic acoustics, combined with youthful perspectives on life, created unimaginable sensations.
I turned on the shower and adjusted the water. I took a note from the middle octave. The shower responded with a resonant echo. I began to sing. 'I hear a voice from afar, a morning voice in silver dew.' I recalled my school and student years. I am eighteen again! I sang and sang. There was complete reverberation. If someone had walked in from the outside, they would have thought I had gone mad. The third chorus was the most profound.
I swear I will become cleaner and kinder
And I won't abandon my friend in trouble... no... yes... friend
For some unknown reason, my voice trembled. I tried to sing again, but couldn’t. A lump formed in my throat, and an inexplicable force constricted my chest...
I remembered everything. I recalled all that happened next with me and my friends. I remembered how we first participated in a serious project and completely fell out over some trivial money. I also remembered the argument over who was really in charge of the project. I recalled how my friend and I both liked the same girl, and I deceived my friend by running off with her from a party. I remembered how I worked in the same department as another friend, and I became the boss, while he had to resign. And more, much more...
You cannot hide from this behind any perimeter or at any level. Quantum computers and neuro-interfaces are powerless here. The lump in my chest flipped, melted away, and turned into tears. I sat naked on the sharp, broken tiles and cried. The salty tears mixed with chlorinated water and trickled straight down my throat.
Universe! What must I do to sing sincerely once more, 'I swear I will be cleaner and kinder, and I never ask a friend for help in trouble,' and for you to believe me again, as before? I lifted my face and looked up. A Soviet lamp of standardized design stared back at me, unblinking, from the ceiling.
Night
After the shower, I returned to the building and tried to calm down. But I still spent the night not very well. I was confused. I thought a lot about Nastya. Is there something more between us than the absence of abstract barriers? What’s going on between her and Marat Ibragimovich? Inside, I felt that they were, so to speak, not completely strangers. What to do? I only fell asleep close to morning, comforting myself with the thought that maybe the next day would not be in vain. And I would finally find out what 'The ACO Simulation Laboratory' is.
(to be continued: Protocol 'Entropy'. Part 5 of 6. The Infinite Shine of Pure Mind)
Source: habr.com
