I live in the forest, just a few knotted ancient oaks from the Bandersnatch.
I remember the good old days, when the Jabberwalky and I would talk late into the night
about the world, about all possible worlds and all possible logics, all possible maths
and how those possible maths would relate to all possible worlds.
But then that silly kid, egged on by his know-nothing father, invaded our quiet wood. He left my friend dead, and with his head went galumphing back, over the light-green meadows, across the sparkle-twisting rivers, around the sleepy green pond, to the kingdom of men. We’d never bothered people; we never even thought of them very much. We stayed here in the tall dark forest and shared beautiful thoughts.
I find it harder to think beautiful thoughts without the Jabberwalky. Bandersnatch is a nice guy, but he doesn’t have nearly JW’s scope of thought; he mostly likes to talk about the weather, which is not meaningful enough to sustain much real conversation.
It’s hard to think beautiful thoughts by yourself. Your thoughtpaths loop around, get confused and lonely, peter out – go to sleep, basically.
I don’t see the point in anger and hate, but I cannot help feel a deep sorrow and regret and something like a lumpy, scorching frustration over this vainglorious killing of my only real friend.
Anyway, that’s my life lately. Maybe someday it’ll get better, though I can’t really see how.
And the worst of it is the feeling that in some sense all our beautiful talk of the infinite possibilities and their connection to the infinite realities was ultimately no more enlightening than the skimpy, empty-boned weather-based chit-chats I have with BS. How much I wish I could go back to JW and shout, “but beneath the amazing contours! what lies beneath!? and how do we span both?! and where are you? where were we ever?!”