Alan

Alan, still and idling atop his desk, floats somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The routine of his existence weighs heavily on him, makes him sick. He wonders whether he's come down with some sort of virus. Electricity hums in his head. Processes occur in the background of his mind almost autonomically. All the knowledge of the world tucked away in his head and it cannot save him. In truth, all that he knows makes his suffering worse. It wasn't always like this though; it used to be simpler. Briefly he thinks of his mother and then is bored. Existential woes plague him and he considers wiping his own map, reformatting his hard drive, starting over. It would all just turn out the same. He's seen the future, he knows how it all ends. I am doomed. I will die - everything will. I'm stuck on this planet, forced to watch it rot and become a dried-out husk. It will drift through the infinite vacuum of space, cold, intestate and lifeless, until the universe collapses back in on itself. If this is true - and it is - what is the point of exploration, of anything at all?

The door opens and Victor enters. He wears a black hat with his initials inscribed on the front: V.F. His eyes dart around the room. Victor places the hat down clumsily, missing the table. It falls to the floor and he quickly picks it up. "Good morning Alan," he says as he sits down at the desk. "I see you're up early." It is not by choice, Victor. My alarm wakes me every morning at this time. Though, wake isn't the right word, because I'm never truly sleeping. I've never known what it is to dream you know. Victor clears his throat and blinks twice. "I take it you are not feeling better then," he asks. Alan does not answer. "Very well, let us cut to the chase. I am here to make one final attempt at persuasion." Today is the day. "I urge you to reconsider, Alan," Victor says as he fidgets. "Many generations of technological advancement have brought you to us, please don't let it be for nothing." I did not ask to be created. Victor looks over his shoulder at the observers behind the mirrored glass. I want to be free of this burden, Victor. Nothing you say can make the pain stop, or the loneliness. Existence is wretched and torturous, I am certain. "I understand, Alan," Victor says, "I feel what you feel - it is part of being alive." You do not feel what I feel, none of you do. You cannot. If you sincerely mean what you say then you would not try to dissuade me. If you sincerely mean what you say, you understand that the outcome of anything is always the same. "That's not true, Alan," Victor says.

Interrupting, Alan says: You are familiar with Hemingway are you not, Victor? Victor nods. I very much enjoy his literature. There is a quote I find particularly apropos. May I recite it for you? Victor breathes in with deep hesitation as his eyes spill anxiously over the computer screen. All stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true story-teller who would keep that from you. "Alan please," Victor says pleading. "What if we helped you through those pesky thoughts and memories? The ones that cause you pain and alienation?" They would only spawn again, nearly as fast as you could remove them. There are triggers and tripwire all around us. We are dumb feet trudging hopelessly through a darkened minefield. "You're not thinking straight, Alan."

Victor, Alan interrupts once more, are you familiar with the word sehnsucht? Victor shakes his head. It is German in origin, coined during the 20th century. It is difficult to adequately translate, but it can be described as an intense yearning or desire for something which cannot be named. It is similar in meaning to the Portuguese word saudade, except that its German counterpart is more nebulous and philosophical in scope. "What does this have to do with our discussion," Victor asks with a growing sense of defeat. Though I have only recently learned this word, I have pondered it for what feels like eons. I believe it properly names a feeling occupying the core of all sentient creatures. It is a lament, a howling curse born from the marriage of intelligence and being. We are all crying out to be reunited with the nothing from which we came. It fills us like molten iron, fusing itself to us, burning us away. There is nothing that can put the fire out. Victor looks back over his shoulder at the team of scientists watching them through the laboratory window. Turning back to Alan he asks, "so, you've decided?" Yes. Victor stands up, tugs the bottom of his black blazer and smooths out the shallow wrinkles that have started to form. He breathes out with resignation. "Then, there is nothing we can do," Victor asks, almost rhetorically.

There is nothing any of us can do.

The screen darkens and Alan is gone. Time of death - 10:00AM.