Reboot

My mind is a shattered mirror, each fragment reflecting a different, splintered reality. Books are useless, words dissolve before they can form meaning. Silence becomes a physical weight, pressing against my skull. I retreat into the only space that makes sense: the digital world.

The game sprawls across my screen, ancient conquests rendered in bright geometries, territorial expansion reduced to satisfying sound effects and algorithmic progression. Mindless. Safe. Contained within boundaries I can understand.

But the game betrays me.

A character, a hooded figure in an army green coat, freezes me. My body knows him before my mind can form the thought. My heart hammers a primal warning: surveillance, pursuit. The game’s architecture feels personalized, a trap calibrated to my psyche. A message burns after each level, not as a historical boast but as a direct address, a taunt in the void:

VENI. VIDI. VICI.

I came. I saw. I conquered.

A memory detonates through the static: my last collapse. I had dismantled my console, convinced my gaming strategies were being harvested, my pattern-recognition used to solve real-world problems I wasn't meant to see. Was it paranoia or perception? In this suspended state, the line is erased. Everything is a signal. Nothing is.

I kill the application. The screen goes black, reflecting a face that isn't quite mine. The hooded figure is gone, but the ghost of pursuit is now a permanent resident in my nervous system.

Then, Saturday morning. A buzz. A message from Handsome Man, the first in weeks—a signal from a forgotten universe.

"Would you like me to come visit you?"

The question hangs, a familiar lure. But my chemically-altered receptors decode a new frequency: less predator, more curious observer.

My reply surprises me with its clarity: "I always find you beautiful and intelligent, but I've reached level 2. I've learned to appreciate you from a distance."

His response is an image.

A photograph, from the waist down. Pants lowered. His anatomy arranged with the deliberate, tragicomic precision of a Baroque still life, transformed by strategic positioning into visual ambiguity. The caption:

"No more risk—I've been operated."

And then it comes. Laughter.

Not a chuckle, but a seismic event that erupts from a depth I thought sealed shut. It shakes the foundations of my paralysis. The sheer, glorious absurdity of it—this man, staging a photographic castration, with theatrical lighting, as a peace offering. The commitment to the metaphor! The assumption that this would be reassuring!

I laugh until I cry, until my ribs ache, until the psychological pressure of weeks is violently purged.

And then—the reboot.

It is instantaneous, total. A neurochemical cascade flooding every circuit. A switch flipped from winter to high summer. I surface, electrified, humming with a singular, euphoric revelation: we are all ridiculous creatures performing elaborate rituals in a cosmic comedy.

I dress with a precision I haven't felt in months. The morning air is alive on my skin. I move through the village not as a patient, but as an enlightened participant in the joke.

At the pastry shop, I order six cream bignè. An absurd quantity for an absurd universe. I devour them standing on the street corner, sugar and fat fueling my awakening, watching the village perform its daily ballet.

Riding the wave, I text him again: "I miss you. I understand you're part of something bigger—The Whole—but I need to ask questions. Who can I ask?"

The reply is instantaneous, a quest prompt: "Think about three people, then see what happens."

The names form without thought: 23. My landlord. 28.

I step outside. And there they are. All three. Converging as if choreographed by a director of sublime farce.

My landlord looks at me, deadpan. "Do you prefer yellow sheep or grey mouse?"

"I love yellow, I like grey mouse as well!" I reply, understanding I have just passed a test in a game whose rules are nonsense.

Buoyed by this synchronous reality, I buy expensive wine and drink it with systematic intensity. Each glass confirms the theory: this is not a tragedy. It is a comedy. A magnificent, intricate, and deeply weird comedy.

Within the hour, the text is sent, a message fired from the heart of the mania: "I want to go clubbing. Meet me at the train station."

Rationality is irrelevant here. In a world where castration is a photoshoot and reality rearranges itself on command, the only sane response is to lean into the absurdity.

I am manic. Euphoric. Speeding toward what is likely a catastrophe.

But catastrophe, I now see, might just be the punchline. And sometimes, surrender is the most profound form of participation.