The Greatest of All Delusions

We may not know what they are, if they are in fact delusions, or premonitions, but either way, they come upon one rather suddenly, like a knight on a barded steed, during the wee hours… when all the lights are out, and the dark clouds roll in over the city (rather big, omniscient, and tormenting); and especially when the watchmen — way up in the their towers, and overlooking the citadel — have retired for the night and have thus left the stronghold unguarded, unmanned, and in grave peril...

Then, and only then, do the most fantastic of visions come — the grandest and most clairvoyant balderdash that one could possibly express in writing.

Consider, for instance, that this aforementioned knight (on a mission through the vastness of the cosmos) suddenly finds himself surrounded, be it in every direction (as is so often the case with the airborne division of the paramilitary; for they have gained a certain notoriety for having the combined cojones and desire to parachute in to the unknown, from some other distantly inhabited world), and are keen to awaken some of these sleeping giants, dutifully, and stake a claim in their land.

And like any arbitrary hero, on a quest of no lesser importance than for the virtues of truth and discovery (i.e., sola virtus invicta), he is often expected, or required, to dispel and destroy any threatening encounters, perhaps as ardently (or humorously) as, say, when Don Quixote charged headlong at the rotating arms of a windmill. Yet, the airborne of this particular century, most often, find themselves surrounded, instead, by half-asleep walkers*. For the majority are unfortunately unable to see above the stoned parapet, and are thus convinced and persuaded that the enemy cannot possibly have permeated through, like diffusion, if these walkers are not wielding any obvious weapons.

On the other hand, Don Quixote is convinced (beyond a shadow of a doubt) that the windmills are, in fact, menacing giants. Furthermore, his delusions did not just come to an abrupt end when he wanted to vanquish these mechanical beasts (these giants of energy), either. On the contrary, after his spectularly failed attempt to subdue one, our dons delulu persisted more or less through to the end of the novel, which is not quite so insane, come to think of it — consider, for instance, how much oil energy presently goes into maintaining a modern-day windmill after all. So, be that as it may, his delusions to engage in 'unequal combat' have some merit.

Just imagine, then (as a point of contention), the ultimate giant of energy: the impenetrable black hole; which (in my current deluded state), one could argue, is like a Trojan horse (impregnable and full of iron at its core); but, ready and willing to dismantle and perhaps, capture Troy. And, so it comes to pass, that this knight, fresh into his mission, and whilst crossing the drawbridge into the citadel, (under cover of the night, of course), captures the city, just like a walking, faceless, pawn.

Thus here, high on the dais*, and whether our knight is a singularity, or not, our Chieftain speaks to you now. For there is little time for a plump and pampered version of his heroic events. Our brave knight, pumped on iron, and thus driven, ready — and forged as a force to be reckoned with — goes careening into the black hole — shield a-blazing, as if reentering through Earth’s atmosphere aboard the Starship — for the love of all that is glory, and suddenly finds himself in a duel with all the other objects of mass and significance, which are somehow drawn to him, as though he were the brightest, densest, or (perhaps) even the long-sought-after singularity.

And though he may have initially intended to parley (with these other dim masses, that begin to gather and coalesce), it’s rather clear, now, that they are approaching his person full-tilt, which he rightly discerns, as a subtle form of ambush; for, if we are keen to freeze this frame, in space and time, and peer on over the Event Horizon (much like glimpsing the invader from over stoned parapet), the reader would find that the odds of successfully escaping from this bombardment (given the calculations) would be infinitesimally small.

But, given this fact, this knight has kept a secret weapon at his disposal that will send the lot of them all back in time, to a period before the invention of the telescope — should they deserve such treatment, though I judge not. And it’s not the lance, for so our noble don lost it in battle with the windmill, but it’s much more fearsome than that: it’s the swift and noble roundhouse kick, which instantly spaghettifies all surrounding matter, in but an instant. And with the power generated by such a maneuver (which is virtually unmatched), and with a Dyson sphere to capture the energy released, it rivals all the combined energy known to man at present. This my dear reader, is the ultimate delusion. This is how you walk through life. Sending my thoughts and regards over the airwaves from a Type IV civilization.

Virgil. The Aeneid. Translated by W. F. Jackson Knight, Penguin Classics, 1956.

The Walking Dead. Created by Frank Darabont, performances by Andrew Lincoln, Norman Reedus, and Melissa McBride, AMC, 2010–2022.