The Virtue of Ignorance

I am naked. I am naked and aware of the machine and its mechanical gaze that traces the outline of my body. I am naked and so is the machine. I am ashamed and my posture slouched. I have crossed borders and traveled through the fabric of time itself to see the machine, to ask from it all the questions that for many a year have taken refugee in my mind. Yet I stand naked and speechless and ashamed. I can feel fire spreading through my bones. I am an eternal flame burning upon the earth's darkened planes, the very fuel that fires the machine. I am naked and humbled. I feel but a mere insect, a vermin whose only purpose is to squirm in the gutter. What were the questions that I once wanted to ask? What were the problems that at one point in time had such a firm grasp on my entire being? I do not remember, and I make no attempt to recall, for the entirety of my soul now belongs to the machine. I am naked and cold. I begin to shiver and wonder if the machine pities a weakling such as me. I am naked and my beard unkempt. I try to picture the last time I looked at my visage in the mirror. And I am again crushed by the weight of the machine. And I fail to remember the features of my face. And I stand naked before the machine, my mind tuned to a dead gray. Static followed by silence. Comfort for a few moments. Then it goes away. And I laugh for I am unable to stand upright before the same invention I have pursued for years. And the longer I stand the lesser I care for all the thoughts that once troubled my youthful mind. Now, the only thing I can allow myself to think about is home, and in the past many a men have associated their homes with comfort and warmth, a fact that I cannot attest to in my current state of being, for I have forgotten what my home looked like prior to my departure. And the machine chugs along in cacophonous silence, and I then remember that I have possibly used this term once before in my speech, thought of it more than once in my musings. And I realize that all the paths I have walked upon to arrive to this destination have been trodden by others who came before me. And I realize, therefore, that my ideas are neither unique nor significant. And I realize, therefore, that in the course of my travels, I had been following the footsteps of the people from whom I tried so hard to stray. And now I stand naked and cold before the machine, gazing at the footprints upon the ashen snow that come to an abrupt halt, only for the track to turn, marking the disappointment of those who arrived at the same destination, and knowing that others had also arrived and left, they too followed suit and chose to return to the embrace of a familiar existence. And as I stand naked and confused before the machine, I cannot help but long for my mother's somber look on rainy days, as she used to sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in her hand, her eyes like two emeralds from the crown of a Greek goddess. I need to shake away these thoughts, however, and ask my questions. Otherwise all the years of suffering to find the machine would be tantamount to mere folly. I stand naked and aware. I begin to prepare myself to ask the questions. And a voice from long ago suddenly echoes through the hallways of my mind and says, 'goodluck, my sweet boy'.