I am staring at this blank, white screen. There is this burning desire inside me to write. To create some thing…. to leave behind something. Something more substantial than the faded receipts in the drawer and limp, worn shirts hanging in the closet. I don’t know where I am going with this spurt of key-tapping, but it is more than what I’ve done in quite some time. Although, given half the chance, I would like to write some thing meaningful, a piece of craft, something like the Gravity’s Rainbow, but I am too lazy…. No, wait. It’s not laziness. As long as I don’t actually attempt anything, there is chance that I might be good at it, right? You know what? The whole scene is like the farce with the Cat in the box? You don’t know if it’s dead until you open it. Did a parallel universe come in to being when I typed in Key ‘I’? Did million possibilities spring in to existence through that one single act? Is there a Hari right now, tapping these very keys who goes on to become a celebrated Nobel laureate or a cynical playwright, a philandering novelist, a budding poet? Why even another Shakespeare? If all these universes exist right now in parallel, does it not mean that right now, I am in fact writing my ‘V’? Does the fact that it is not happening in this universe make it any less real? But then, there could be this universe in which I picked up this laptop and smashed in the heads of the couple living upstairs. Should I be guilty of that? So, like that particle that turns when its partner is forced to turn, will what happens on those other universes affect me? But then, the theory of infinite universes has not really been convincing, has it? Thank God for that! But wouldn’t it be fun to go the other way from infinite universes and take anything that is as completely arbitrary and whimsical as reality and thrust it in to a quarantined and completely closed environment creating a Russian Doll like Hyper reality. A mental Carnot engine, if you will, which feeds upon our desires and fears and projects the reality limited to its own limitations on us? Maybe that’s what our perceived existence truly is. How many times in our life are we shocked by something absolutely unexpected? The ability of man to imagine something that does not have its roots in the mundane everyday is nonexistent. We all create things based on what we know. If that was the case, God could not have created us out of nothing. We are in fact his image aren’t we? But we can’t just be physical reflections. We might have similar mental faculties to God, right? But then, I am sure the doll was sure that the carpenter’s son had no life because the carpenter painted the doll with his face. The puppet may have the dimple but nothing else besides.