In the Face of Despair

The death of a child. Can a parent imagine anything worse? Is there anything in this world that compares to the unbearable agony of losing a loved one, especially one so young and full of potential? Nothing quite captures the depth of that loss. I once stood as a silent observer, watching as a mourning pair of parents wept for the child they had lost, their grief a heavy, suffocating presence in the room. They expressed their gratitude to the rest of the family for their unwavering support, and they thanked the child's friends for being there during the fleeting moments when it mattered most. The raw, unfiltered emotion of that scene clung to the air, almost too much to bear.

Back in the other world, in the year 2019, I was painfully aware that every minute, at least one baby would lose its life before ever tasting the air, before ever experiencing the world outside the womb. It was a grim statistic, a haunting reality that hung over the heads of those who chose to acknowledge it. Yet, in those days, most people in the developed countries turned their eyes away from that unspeakable despair. They averted their gaze, choosing ignorance over the crushing weight of such knowledge. After all, as the old saying goes, ignorance is bliss. And who could blame them? The truth was heavy, unbearable even.

But then, there were those who couldn't turn away, those who were forced to carry that unbearable weight with them every single day. The parents who cradled lifeless children in their arms, their grief too immense to be expressed in words. The doctors who fought tirelessly against the unyielding hand of inevitability, knowing that despite their best efforts, some battles were destined to be lost. The caregivers who watched, helpless, as the light slowly faded from tiny, innocent eyes. These were the people who became numb—not because they lacked compassion, but because they had no other choice. They were emotionally drained, their hearts hardened by the relentless sorrow they faced, morally exhausted from the constant confrontation with death and despair. They had to be, for if they allowed themselves to feel the full weight of their grief, it would consume them entirely, leaving nothing but hollow shells behind.

And so, a chasm grew—a vast, yawning divide between those who could afford the luxury of ignorance and those who were overexposed to the harshest realities of life. This moral divide was impossible to bridge, a disparity that those in power struggled to explain or justify. How could they reconcile the indifference of the fortunate, those who lived in blissful ignorance, with the suffering of the rest, who bore the brunt of the world's injustices? How could two worlds, so starkly opposed, coexist within the same reality? The truth was as painful as it was undeniable: one world was built on the foundations of the other, its comfort and prosperity resting on the backs of those who suffered.

The most tragic part of it all was that so many of those lives—those tiny, fragile lives—could have been saved, if only the civilization they were born into hadn't been so deeply flawed. The mistakes of the system weren't recent—they had been piling up for centuries, layer upon layer of neglect, injustice, and greed. It was a history written by the winners, by those who had managed to rise above the suffering, often at the expense of the vulnerable. And what did it all lead to?A baby's coffin, sold for fifty dollars—a cruel reminder of a life that barely began, reduced to a transaction that the very people who needed it most couldn't even fucking afford, a line item in the ledger of a civilization that had lost its way.

I refused to turn my eyes away from it, from the harsh truths that many sought to avoid. I had lived a life of abundance, surrounded by comfort and security. Fortune had spared me from the cruel hands of fate that so often snatch loved ones away. I had lost no family to accidents, no tragic twists of human error. The only loved ones I had lost were those who succumbed to nature's inevitable call or, in rare cases, those who made the conscious choice to embrace the calmness of death over the uncertainty of eternal life. It was their choice, a deliberate surrender to peace, and I had come to respect their decision—not just logically, but emotionally as well.

The least I could do, I thought, was acknowledge how profoundly blessed I was. I didn't run from pain; I faced it, allowing it to teach me, mold me, and in doing so, I found a deeper happiness. It wasn't a happiness rooted in ignorance or denial, but one that came from understanding the delicate balance between joy and sorrow. I could appreciate the smallest sliver of happiness because I had glimpsed the depths of despair. The contrast made each moment of light all the more precious.

Yet, despite my efforts to confront the reality of the world, the weight of the difference—the vast gulf between my fortunate life and the suffering of others—grew heavier with each passing day. How could I justify my happiness, knowing that my inaction, my comfortable complacency, contributed to the misery of others? How could I find peace, knowing that my lifestyle, my very joy, was built upon the foundations of oppression and inequality?

These thoughts gnawed at me, a persistent whisper in the back of my mind, a shadow that lingered even in my brightest moments. I knew I could not live with myself if I did not at least try to change the world when I had the power to do so. It wasn't enough to simply acknowledge my privilege; I had to act. I had to use whatever influence I possessed to make a difference, to right the wrongs that I had long benefited from.

In the end, we succeeded. We built a civilization that I could take pride in, a society that had evolved, reshaped, and, in many ways, redeemed itself. But as I stood amidst the achievements, the progress, the hard-won victories, the question remained: Did the ends justify the means? Had the cost been too great? It was a question that lingered in the quiet moments, a haunting echo that I could never quite silence. Perhaps the answer would forever elude me, slipping through my grasp like sand through fingers, leaving only the weight of the choices I made and the world I left behind.

Oh boy, look at where my mind takes me. Bad moments have a way of dredging up bad memories, don't they? And finding out that you're going to be executed without so much as a trial—well, that's certainly not a good thing. But, in a twisted way, it's kind of funny, isn't it? Getting executed just because I'm different. Classic.

"It is not funny," Dad says quietly. He's sitting in the living room, smoking something that fills the air with a curious blend of bitter and sweet. The smoke curls lazily in the air, a deep blue hue that contrasts sharply with the somber mood. It smells like smoke usually does—sharp and acrid—but there's an undertone of sweetness that makes it almost pleasant, almost soothing.

"Hahahaaa," I let out a dry laugh, one that echoes with the weight of absurdity.

'Dark humor has always been civilization's way of coping, hasn't it? It's helped us get through the hardest times in the past, and it always will in the future, no matter where you are. Deciding that something isn't funny—that's the real foolishness. Finding a bit of humor, a sliver of absurdity, even in the darkest moments—well, that's how you keep the ember of positivity alive. It might cost you some social dignity, sure, but isn't that a small price to pay? Besides, when your own culture rejects your very existence, what dignity is there left to uphold?'

Father doesn't answer, but I know he hears me. I don't think he has a choice—my thoughts echo in his mind whether he wants them to or not.

"Haaa…" I sigh, the weight of everything pressing down on me. Can't we leave, Father? I ask, my voice carrying a note of quiet desperation. I'd at least like to see the world before they try to send me across the river.

"Leaving isn't an option for you either," he replies, his voice distant and passive, lost in thought. "At the very least, they're letting you spend your last days here, in this familiar place, instead of quarantining you in the hatching room. And don't think I've given up on you just yet, so hush and let me think." The words, though stern, are undercut by the focus in his tone. He's thinking hard, that much is clear. I can feel the tingling sensation that surrounds him in my mind's eye, like a faint hum of energy in the air. It's almost as if I can taste the magic that envelops him with my third eye. He's been at it for… what, at least two naps now?

But, Dad, I think back, trying to reassure him, I haven't given up either. I've been spending my time efficiently. When I'm awake, I practice breathwork to rewire my brain, and I use my "third eye"— I mimic air quotes with my fingers —to compare my understanding of the old world to this one. And when I'm asleep, I reorganize my thought patterns. I'm barely comfortable with my state of mind right now, but that means mental growth is happening fast.

"Fascinating," Albert interjects, bursting into the conversation with that eager tone of his, "but can we go back to where you compared this world to the one in your memories?" He's practically vibrating with curiosity.

Do you, like, have your own home? I ask, eyeing the man who's been sitting in the corner, his head now raised from the book he's been engrossed in.

"I have more free time now than ever," he replies with a shrug, shaking the neck restraint that encircles him like a collar. "Most of my activities are… restricted. I can barely enter half of the public buildings. I'm allowed a maximum of two hours in my lab, but I can slave away for the council as much as they please." He laughs, though there's a bitter edge to it.

"And I can spend as much time here as I wish. This place is currently a safe haven, beyond the council's reach." He closes his book with a satisfied smile, as if savoring a small victory.

I can't help but feel skeptical. I don't see how that's true, considering they're going to execute me. And also, you didn't answer my question. But he dodges the subject with practiced ease, standing up and beginning to pace as he continues his monologue.

"That doesn't come without a price. I don't think you realize how much your parents mean to the council. They're both pillars of the system's structure. Taking their child from them, even under the guise of executing a 'different race reincarnator' as per the council's laws, is still a socially and politically risky move. Children don't come to our race often. We are fiercely protective of them. And now, those fools wish to execute one of them." His words drip with spite, and disgust flickers in his eyes. "So, they have to put on a show. They have to express how sincere they are. How deeply they empathize with the loss of a child, tragically claimed by a horrible disease. How sorry they are that it has to be this way. Right now, the council is bending over backward, kissing their asses."

"All that… just to see you die," Father says slowly, his words marinated in reflection, so heavy with meaning that they seem to hang in the air, refusing to dissipate.

"Can't believe I respected them so greatly. Why can't they see how wrong this is?" Father's voice is tinged with genuine sadness, conflicted and raw. The disillusionment in his words weighs heavy, like a burden he wasn't prepared to carry. Albert glances at him, and though his face twists awkwardly, I can sense the deep empathy he feels for Father. There's a shared understanding between them, a quiet acknowledgment of the pain that lingers unspoken. We sit in that moment of silence, letting it pass like a dark cloud drifting away, leaving only a trace of its shadow behind.

"Sigh. Back to the original question," Albert says, breaking the silence as he refocuses. "What have you discovered by comparing this world to the one you remember?"

'The overall philosophy of existence seems to be the same, just as one would expect. Remember, from the point of view of my memories, I created this world—or, more accurately, I created the entity that created this world. On a macro level, existence here seems somewhat similar to how I experienced it in my old life. Three physical dimensions and time, making up four. There seems even to be a fifth dimension, possibly alternative timelines, which makes sense—macro-level things tend to repeat themselves, like a self-similar spiral. But on the micro level? That's where things get confusing. I haven't yet grasped how form manifests itself in this reality. In my old life, it was energy, movement across various planes of physical dimensions. Here, we seem to have at least five dimensions, but what truly puzzles me is the nature of what manifests as magic in this world.'

Albert's eyes light up with a surge of excitement. A notebook appears in his hands, almost as if by magic, and he begins furiously scribbling down notes. I can feel his curiosity pulsing like a heartbeat, vibrant and alive.

"Some of those concepts fly right past me," Albert admits, his voice a mix of wonder and enthusiasm, "but that last question—I can answer that. Similar to your old world, this one is also manifested through energy, and that energy can be influenced by conscious intent. The way in which conscious intent manifests varies from person to person, influenced by various factors, but the most important is the concept that the individual imagines as fundamental. We call this your primary concept—or primary magic, as it's known by those less familiar with the technicalities. It defines the way you can affect reality."

'Interesting. Would you consider that energy as movement?' I inquire, my mind turning over the possibilities.

Albert pauses, his eyes narrowing in thought as he carefully considers my question. "... If I understand what you mean by the dimension of time, I can see how it might resemble movement. But I believe a more accurate term would be 'change,' especially since our magic often borders on the metaphysical. It's not just about the shifting of matter or energy; it's about transformation at a fundamental level. Energy, in this world, changes form when manifesting different concepts. These concepts, however, can never be fully realized in their true physical form. They remain an ideal, a goal that the magic strives to reach but can never completely embody. The process doesn't always require movement—sometimes, it's more akin to the instantaneous manifestation of cause-and-effect, where the result appears without the usual progression we'd expect in the physical realm."

"Holy shit, if you keep thinking like that, I'm going to get a migraine," Father coughs out, a cloud of blue smoke swirling from his mouth as he lounges on the couch.

"Then you haven't smoked enough," Albert quips, not missing a beat. "We have enough data about the nature of energy to argue that it behaves differently in different states. There is a logic to it, but simply assigning a number to these states doesn't capture their full complexity. After researching the interactions between these different states of energy, we decided to call them concepts. That term best defines the nature of these reactions."

Albert's enthusiasm is palpable, and I can tell that he hasn't had the chance to geek out like this in a long time.

'Interesting,' I muse. 'Our science was much more grounded in mathematics and objective evidence. But then again, we didn't have a sense like the third eye. Our senses only explained a small fraction of the universe. Much of what we knew came from second-hand observations—machines, calculations, data. We had theories about senses like the third eye and magic, but we weren't sure if those kinds of things could exist.'

"Your world didn't have magic? Then… How did you even move?" Albert seems genuinely perplexed, as if trying to reconcile his understanding of existence with mine.

'Well, we had physical bodies,' I explain, slightly bemused by his question. 'The body I had was proportionally almost identical to the one I have now, except for the tail and the gem on my forehead. I don't quite understand why you'd ask that question, though.'

"I believe we're working with different definitions of magic," Albert muses, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the cover of his book. "Here, any effect brought about by a being's intention is what we consider magic. If I desire my hand to move and it obeys, that's magic—it's the act of manifesting change in the world around me through the sheer force of intent. In our understanding, everything that creates change through intention, every shift in the fabric of reality brought about by a conscious will, is magic. In truth, our very existence, the essence of who we are and how we interact with the world, is a manifestation of magic." Albert's eyes wander around the room as his thoughts drift along the path his words have paved.

'We indeed have a different definition,' I agree. 'I suppose we took our ability to affect the world for granted. We didn't even have a word for that. For us, the exact definition of magic varied across cultures, but as a scientist, I considered magic to be something that lacked a physical explanation. We believed that if something didn't have a physical explanation, it wasn't real, which is why we thought magic couldn't exist. Technically, that belief still holds because my current understanding of this world explains magic in physical terms. This world could be an illusion generated by the physical means of my old world. The physical laws I knew don't necessarily apply here.'

"Quite the gap," Albert mutters, rubbing his chin as he ponders the implications.

'Indeed,' I reply, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie with Albert. It's refreshing to find someone with similar interests so soon after arriving in this world. This conversation is rekindling my desire to explore, to uncover the mysteries of this place. If I'm to escape the predicament I've found myself in, understanding how magic works might just be the key. There's still a glimmer of hope—a possibility I can't afford to ignore.