And just like that, another reality is created. A simple decision. A “yes” and a “no”. Branches upon branches of realities spring into being! But the physicists, mathematicians, and science fiction writers have all missed a trick. You see, we needn’t look to parallel universes or pluck at string theory or muse on the multiverse, there are infinite realities just here. I walk into a shop. I see an attractive woman. I approach. In my reality, I’m James Bond, fresh off saving the world for the umpteenth time, riding high. In her reality, I’m another schmuck trying his luck. Or perhaps both realities are mine, stuck in an endless battle between confidence and self-loathing, wrestling to become my dominant reality. The struggle to make the internal external and manifest destiny. As I walk through the city centre I see that a newspaper has secured a new columnist. “You won’t believe what he says next” screams the advert in bold white all-capitalised text on the bus as it passes by. “He says what we’re all thinking” roars the poster as the columnist gurns at me as I wait for the train. Well, which is it? Should I relate to this man or should I be shocked? Maybe both, like a tragicomedy. It’s hard not to see this reality-spinning as dystopian. I reach my destination battered, bruised, and belittled by other realities. In some I’m ugly (but that could be solved in as little as 6-weeks), in some I’m unhappy (but don’t worry, I can make payments over 3 months), in none of them am I accepted. In none of the endless potential realities presented on billboards, sung in catchy jingles, or repeated ad-nauseum on whatever screen I’m looking at, is it suggested for even a moment, that my current reality is the best one. Numbers represent an objective reality. I can tell you that I earn £38,000 per year, that I weigh 81kg, and that I stand at 5’ 9”. I can tell you that I eat, on average, 2300 calories a day. I can tell you how many steps I walk a day, the number of books I’ve read this month, the quantity of baked beans I eat in a week. Is this what my true reality is? Some abstract values that only present an abstract idea of ego? The temperature (I’m told) is 8C so I put my hands in my pocket and run my fingers along the edges of some paper, crinkling and unravelling it, scrunching and un-scrunching, amplifying the sounds in my head. I take the paper out of my paper and stare at it, more numbers. “Reciept No: 2468162,” “1x Aero Mint,” “£1.29,” “07723496892”. The final numbers proving that objectively I am James Bond, saviour of the world. Objectively I have a number, abstract in nature, but a symbol of a new potential reality. A reality that no human alive could’ve conceived until a fateful moment in a corner shop and a weakness for mid-morning sweets. And like that all the realities pile into a singularity. The first date; a casual cup of coffee that turns into two, that turns into an aimless stroll, that turns into drinks, until finally we kiss in the middle of a bridge as the full moon beams down on us. Our first holiday; an ironically booked all-inclusive resort in Malta, during a particularly drunken night (after an evening at a suitably trashy club) I confess my love and it is reciprocated. Our final moments; me sitting at your bedside reading our old adventures to you from a notebook, one final gleeful remembrance of who we are and we pass, together, hands held. For a moment that is all there is. Can I argue that it’s not a reality of sorts? Everything was so clear, the experiences remembered, the emotions felt genuine. A gust of icy wind transports me from that world back into the old one, the one in which my mouth is full of bubbly minty chocolate. But how can I be so sure that I’ve come back to the same reality? Everything looks the same. Something feels different. I am now cursed with the knowledge of an ideal. Some kind of perfect existence in which I live happily ever after. A heaven of sorts. The menial drudgery of daily life giving way to the highlights of emotional extremes. Am I a prophet or hopeless romantic? A soothsayer or lovelorn fantasist? No. I am Cassandra. Doomed by premonitions and sacred knowledge. February [2022] #multiverse #love #dating