What is the ultimate good feeling that the artificial construct of us – the simulacrum – can reasonably hope to enjoy? What is the best buzz that it can ever presume to attain? How can it be sure of living its best life? All these questions and more we like to ask ourselves. The answers can be found in posts on any of the commonly available social media sites of course – that’s how we find out the right answers, the correct answers, the profoundly helpful answers. We find them in the shape of inspirational memes. In the end, as the Great Transhuman philosophers have said, the Divine shall become manifest via the operation of the Holy Algorithm. The answers shall then – in due course – be found floating around semi-submerged in pools of stinking metaphysical effluence, as I myself have publicly noted on many occasions. The long-searched-for answers shall appear in dung heaps, as the Sons of Hermes declared so boldly, in the far-distant future that no man may remember. It’s necessary to root around in the dung heaps a fair bit first of course – that goes pretty much without saying. It’s necessary to root around incessantly in the dark, without having the faintest clue as to what the hell you’re looking for. ‘What am I looking for?’ you ask, bang on cue. ‘Is it something surpassingly large, or is it – on the contrary – something of near infinitesimal size, something about the size of a single mote of dust, and very easy to miss on this account? Nobody knows what you’re looking for. Neither me, nor you, nor anybody else. ‘Will I ever find it?’ you ask next, as a melancholy afterthought. ‘Will I ever, will I ever?’ But you’ve forgotten what you’re looking for by now – your mind is wandering. It wanders far and wide. It wanders in circles. ‘Will I ever?’ you ask again, but there is no friendly voice to reply. You can hear the faint cooing of wood pigeons up in the trees but that tells you nothing. Pigeons are notoriously inscrutable. Nature herself will confound you in the end, when this tangled tale finally comes to an end. And when the answers do come you will realise that they don’t mean a thing. You will realise it at long, long last – it will dawn upon you. The penny will drop. The answers don’t mean anything anymore than your original questions did. You are shouting in the dark. We’re all shouting in the dark. Shouting, shouting, shouting. Hollering clamorously for all we’re worth. Making a terrible commotion, disturbing the peace. Roaring like pure fools that have had too much drink taken. Frightening the pigeons, who now erupt from the treetops in a flurry of wings. You’re in your element now of course. In your youth you were in the Oxford debating team after all, well-versed in the art of drunkenly debating till late in the night. You’re employing Socratic questioning, but no one is listening. You’re practising the didactic method, but you’ve made a terrible mess of it. Storm clouds are gathering ominously overhead. It is the end of an age, you realise with a shock – you are still in disguise, you haven’t yet got around to revealing your true identity and now it’s much too late.
