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A man sits in butterfly upon the surface of the water. Blood red hair falls from his head in a waterfall of gentle curls, shrouding his face in a veil of crimson strands. His skin reflects the color of the pale moon that looms behind him, hanging from a starry sky painted in a thousand colors. His cupped hands hang between his legs as his elbows rest upon his knees, his thumbs arching together to complete the façade of a circle with his forefingers. His steely violet eyes contemplate the still water that seeps between his intertwined fingers, or perhaps they contemplate nothing at all.
Nothing exists here, save for the sky and the water.
And, of course, the man.
The glassy water expands into eternity, as still and unmoving as the foundations of the cosmos. Not a single puff of wind brings ripples to the surface, nor does a single splash of water bring live to the motionless and tranquil waters. Even the gentle breathing of the man does not disturb the perfection of the tranquil mirror that reflects the lies of the sky above him.
Beautiful and lovely, in many ways that sky represents the sum of human understanding, with all its limitations and biases. The stars scatter unnaturally in patterns pleasing to human aesthetics, flowing in ways that catch the eye more than they reflect the underlying natural laws. The moon hangs in place, a hundred times larger than it should have been. It dominates the night sky, just as humans perceive it to.
But these lies are not what the man contemplates, as he stares into the starry waters.
In truth, he has long since forgotten, having emptied his mind of every useless thought and feeling that would cloud his ability to understand. No, it is not right to say that he forgot it, but rather that he set it aside for a later time. In the here and now it is not what he contemplates that truly matters. The act of contemplation is itself the goal here, for it is thought that proves the existence of the self. Without that proof of himself, who would he truly be? What could he truly accomplish?
Some might say that he would be nothing more than a nameless, naked man whose only accomplishment is getting his arse wet after learning to balance upon the surface of the water. A rank amateur in the higher arts of khemistry, who does not even deserve to be called a student of the science. A man who will never achieve the enlightenment of his <span class="mu-i">magnum opus</span> and transmute himself beyond putrid coals.
Others might say that at least the memories others have of him would prove his existence. But then he would be reduced to the water beneath him, a mirror that reflects the lies and approximations humans create to understand what they cannot truly know.
No one can truly know another person. That effort is futility itself.
