the lights were turned off
and i sit in the dark
i think-in-the-dark,
meditating on the cumulative
transmutations, transformative calculations
tallied on some grand calculator
sitting up there,
look, in the sky,
counting out the atoms
blinking in and out,
in some ricocheting pattern,
until the calculator's batteries run out
Every day I wake up, I thank God that I’m dumb. That might seem kinda counterintuitive. I’m sure most people would rather be smart than dumb. But I would have to say that I’m the opposite. The expectations on smart people are truly astounding, and I know that I would not be able to live up to the standards that most smart people have to go through.
Also, being dumb allows me to be consistently optimistic despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Global climate change; we might figure it out. Constant threat of nuclear war and annihilation; hasn’t happened yet, so hopefully it never will. Species dying at an exponential rate; I suppose there’s always cloning. We did it with that sheep Dolly, maybe we can do it with other animals too. Companies are hiking prices up, and governments aren’t managing monetary policy correctly; well, I don’t need much to survive. Just a good book and the occasional movie, both of which the library provides for free.
There are any number of catastrophic thoughts and realities that one is confronted with on a given day, and for me, well, I’m able to sort of brush them off with my stupid optimism. It makes living all that much more enjoyable. You see, if I was smart, then I would be expected to help fix whatever issues humanity is causing and/or going through. And, unfortunately, I’m kinda lazy. I figure it’s better to be lazy and dumb, rather than lazy and smart, since the former at least gives me an excuse for not doing anything to improve the human condition.
Also, I’m fairly certain the world will probably experience some sort of cataclysmic, near-extinction event where a majority of people will not survive. Probably not in my life time. But maybe? And if it just so happens to be within the next 50 or so years, then I’m the right level of dumb to where I’ll be wiped out with the majority rather than being left with the unlucky smart ones that happened to live through and have to figure out life after the apocalypse.
I would not do well in a post-apocalyptic world. I do not look back fondly or reminisce about previous times in history prior to electricity. Every point in history prior to the Industrial Revolution, or even the Internet Revolution, seems like it was a small slice of hell. Disease was rampant. Philosophy was built around survivability. Art was usually subpar, and when it wasn’t you more than likely would never see the good stuff because it was being hoarded by rich, incest dicks. There wasn’t too many books, since the printing press is a relatively new invention (at least when considering the entirety of human history), and nowadays printing presses rely heavily on electricity. In fact, everything does. Most every modern convenience relies super heavily on electricity. All of which I do not think would survive an apocalyptic-sort of event.
So yeah, I’m good with being dumb. Bring on the AI that will think for me so I don’t even really need to do that anymore.
I suppose there’s levels of dumb that I could also aspire to, but at the moment I’m content with knowing so little. I wouldn’t say that I’m in the running for the world’s dumbest person alive, but I’m probably closer in intelligence to the world’s dumbest person rather than to the world’s smartest person, and that’s kinda okay by me.
Cedric had a reputation in Riverview, a reputation like the fine mist that lingered over the river every morning—always there, always a little mysterious. He was the kind of old man who could be a hundred or just well-worn by time; no one really knew. His cottage sat at the edge of the forest like a forgotten secret, its windows reflecting stories no one had quite pieced together.
Fiona showed up one autumn day, her city clothes out of place among the pine-scented air and cobblestone streets. She had the look of someone running from ghosts—maybe the kind that follow you through crowded streets, whispering all the things you’d rather forget. The townsfolk watched her with a mix of curiosity and the polite indifference that small towns do so well.
“Looking for Cedric,” she said to the barista at the only coffee shop in town. He pointed her toward the forest with a nod, his eyes saying, “Good luck,” in that cryptic small-town way.
The knock on Cedric’s door sounded like an echo of a hundred other knocks, each one seeking something intangible. The door creaked open, revealing Cedric’s face—a landscape of wrinkles and wisdom, eyes sharp and kind.
“You’ve come,” he said, as if he’d been expecting her all along.
Fiona didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I heard you know the secret to a good life. I need to know it.”
Cedric handed her a list, written in spidery handwriting that seemed as ancient as the man himself: A handful of patience, a dash of kindness, and a pinch of courage. Fiona looked up, questions in her eyes, but Cedric just smiled and gestured for her to start.
The ancient oak in the heart of the forest was her first stop. There, a fox with a coat that shimmered like autumn leaves waited for her. It led her to a pond so still it seemed to hold the secrets of the world.
“Patience,” said the fox, its voice like a whisper on the wind, “is in the stillness. Sit. Listen.”
Fiona sat by the pond, feeling time stretch and bend around her. The water’s surface rippled gently, each wave a silent lesson. Hours slipped by like minutes, and she felt something inside her settle, like a stone sinking softly to the pond’s bed.
In the village square, an old woman struggled with a load too heavy for her frail frame. Fiona, driven by an impulse she didn’t quite understand, took the weight from her. The woman’s gratitude was a warm light in the cool autumn air.
“Kindness,” she said, her voice tinged with wisdom, “is in the giving without asking. You’ve found it already.”
The river’s edge was her final test. Memories of her brother—his laughter, his absence—flooded her mind, almost knocking her off balance. The river was wild, unforgiving, much like the emotions she’d kept dammed up.
With a deep breath, she stepped into the cold water. Each step was a struggle, but she pushed forward, feeling her fears wash away with the current. When she reached the other side, she was shivering but exhilarated. She had discovered her courage.
Back at Cedric’s cottage, she handed over the invisible ingredients. Cedric took her hand, his eyes twinkling with the knowledge she now understood.
“The most important things for a good life,” he said, “are not things at all. They’re inside you.”
Fiona returned to the city, carrying Riverview’s lessons in her heart. Life didn’t get easier, but it became richer, colored by the patience, kindness, and courage she had found. Her story spread, not as a tale of grandeur, but as a quiet reminder of the profound simplicity hidden in everyday moments.
In Riverview, Cedric continued to live as he always had, a keeper of wisdom in a world that often forgot where to look. And somewhere in the city, Fiona lived a life that blossomed, proving that the best secrets are the ones we find within ourselves.
Fred Aiken Writing 