A World Without String Is Chaos 29 Chapter 29: Don't Fear The Reaper

Fred was lying in bed, with the words of the knife on repeat inside his head.

They say there are five stages of grief. Fred couldn't remember what they were, but he did remember the last stage was acceptance. He thought that was stupid. What was there to accept? It was inevitable; it wasn't like there was a choice not to accept it.

Fred had been a wannabe philosopher when he was in his late teens, early twenties. He thought a lot about the big questions, standard ones like, Why are we here? Why is there something, rather than nothing? Is there a G.o.d?

He was a staunch materialist, believing in "science" and the "Scientific Method". Life was just a bunch of chemical reaction. Consciousness was an emergent phenomenon, simply electrical activity. After you die, the universe blows up, then there's nothing. Fred soon realized that these "conclusions" left more questions unanswered than answered. What did "nothing" mean? Black? Absence of something, or everything? He tried being an absurdist: life was trying to find meaning in a meaningless world! Sisyphus was happy, pointlessly pushing up the boulder up the hill, only to have it tumbling down. Over and over again, for eternity. But what was infinity? What did meaningless mean? Then, the knife entered his life, and Fred was just as confused as ever.

Fred thought it would be best to just let these questions lie, and live his life. The questions only served to befuddle him, and almost prevent action irl (in real life). Maybe these questions were just that, thoughts that petrified people in times of malaise and wanting. The unlucky ones killed themselves. Fred was almost one of them. But he knew one thing. He liked his life right now.

And he wanted his father to be a part of it, for longer. Forever. Fred found it funny. Death seemed to be a sweet release from suffering during the dark times, and a final time-out for children who were having fun during the good times. Perhaps it was just all in perspective.

"Are you quite done?" The knife.

"It wasn't like you were going to illuminate anything, anyway."

"I had to stop you, Fred. Look at you. I tell you that your father is going to die in a week, and you're just lying there, wallowing in such limited thinking, if you could call it thinking. Shouldn't you be making the most of your time, or rather, your father's time, by being with him? Time is running out."

Fred felt like he was jolted with lightning. Yes, what was he doing? A week, to explain so many things. To say so many things. To do so many things. It seemed too short. Yet just enough.

"What do I do now?" Fred cried. He didn't cry in a long time.

"That's up to you, Fred."

"It was always up to you."