the answer is to be.

1. 1

I am forty-three years old.2

My kids tell me I need a real job. They have friends whose dads go out and put out fires, scores big deals with companies, play with chemicals, heal people. They think I should do something like that.3

What do I do? 4

2. 5

I am me. That is natural, you say, a given. But the fact is that I am me in a thousand places at once. I am me in this universe, in this life, in this place. But there are infinite mes, in infinite lives in infinite universes in infinite places. And, know what? They're all me too. I have lived as each of them.6

There is one me, right now, who is in great danger. The zombies have come, you see, and they are pounding at the door and now the hinges are bending, twisting, submitting to the force of undead will that is bent upon them. And now the hinges break and the door comes crashing down and hits the ground with a great BANG and the undead come pouring through the doorway. They stink, their rotting flesh falling to bits on the floor. They moan, a sound that grates against the ears like a child crying but many many times worse, it gets into your head and claws you and you can't stop it. And as they open their mouths I smell the stink of their breath, like rotten meat and halitosis and there is body odor in there too, sweat and grease... and they reach out for me, the flesh dropping to reveal bones and the bony hands curling around my neck...7

Don't worry, I survive.8

There is another me, in less imminent danger but far more miserable. This me, you see, is wandering the palace gardens (in the grandest kingdom in his universe), and he is sick at heart. For though he is a duke, and has every worldly comfort and by all expectation a rich life ahead of him, he is unloved. The girl he loves sits at the top of her tower, unreachable because of her cold heart and her imminent marriage to the prince of another kingdom. Why, this me wonders, why must love strike us so? Why must it pierce our hearts with desire when that which we desire is the least attainable? Why does it come to us in beautiful raiment, only to rear and attack us when we turn on it with open arms?9

There is another me, less philosophical at the moment.10

This me is plotting. He needs to find the best way to break into the king's treasury, and he finds that to do that he must get past six squadrons of the king's elite troops and a dragon. The dragon he can take care of, but six squadrons are too much even for him. He feels no remorse for stealing from the king, for the king is evil and the people are starving.11

There is another me contemplating selling his soul to the Devil.12

There is another me on a quest to avenge the murder of my father, but this me is about to rest at a monastery where a priest will counsel me that the way of revenge only corrupts, so it's all right.13

There is another me who has been struck mute but must inform my mother that my uncle murdered my father.14

There is another me fighting using a gun.15

There is another me fighting using a sword.16

There is another me fighting using a club, and one using my fists.17

There is another me who is not me at all, is not anything, is simply void without form or substance waiting to exist. 18

3. 19

These are all metaphors, you say. They must be. They cannot literally be true, of course. No man is all these things, in reality.20

Right? 21

4. 22

There is a room in my house that I rarely go into. I do not allow my children in there. I tell them it contains Something Awful. When they ask what, I widen my eyes and shudder.23

The more vague something is, the more terrifying.24

What is really in this room? My souvenirs.25

In that room I have a jar which contains a preservative liquid of ill-defined nature, and floating in the midst of that liquid is a hand. It is not a healthy hand; it is not, perhaps, a human hand. Originally it was. But now, though some skin remains, you can see more of flesh and meat and vivid white bone. It is curled as if in a choking posture, but it is dead. Nothing to fear from this.26

Also in this room, on a shelf filled with brightly colored objects, is a handkerchief of gilded lace. On it is embroidered the royal seal of a certain princess I courted; it was given me with her tears fresh on it, when it seemed we would be apart forever. For though I knew it not till later, she truly loved me.27

Further, I have a piece of parchment containing a contract written in blood. Circled in blue ink is the loop hole in the contract. The burnt edges are the evidence of the Devil's rage.28

I have a rosary, from a priest who gave me good counsel.29

The head, quite well preserved, of an uncle who killed my father, taken to prevent him killing others.30

Bullet casings, a sword hilt, a fragment of shattered club.31

And a black hole.32

These are some of the things I keep in the room my children must not go into.33

5. 34

More metaphors, you say. A clever way of using them, of confusing us. But they are still all metaphors. None of this is really real. None of this is true. 35

6. 36

This is one of those annoying stories, those stories where it might have all been just a dream but you wake up and there's still a piece of moon dust on your pillow, and you wonder Or was it? and then the story ends. And then you have to decide whether it was actually a dream or not.37

But no, you say. The story is ultimately not real. You're screwing with me here, trying to fool me. But I know. I know it's all a metaphor, even if it's a metaphor wrapped in a metaphor.38

What are metaphors anyway? They are simply masks, dark places behind which the truth lurks. And what is language, but another metaphor?39

For what can language do, what can words capture? When I tell you that somebody smiled, can you see it in the words? Do the squiggly lines that lace the page really tell you anything? 40

One short sleep past, we wake eternally41

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 42

Do those gorgeous words encapsulate the resurrection? Can those words show you the death of death? Can those words even bring you to death's brink? 43

7. 44

Keep talking, you say. You do not have that room you have not been to those places you did not travel to those other worlds you will not fool me with your rhetoric it is all a metaphor!45

Yes, I say.46

All is metaphor. 47

8. 48

“What is truth?” said Pilate to Jesus.49

A coward's words, spoken in a cowardly manner. Yet they are what we say every day. We lie to succeed, we lie to win, we lie to get out of trouble we lie for the sake of lying. We are a race of cowards. I know this, for I am not only in it, but I carry a banner at the head of the procession.50

And those are not even my words. They are the words of Mr. Twain, who was in truth Mr. Clemens who was a much greater man than I am and also and perhaps therefore a much greater coward. 51

9. 52

What is truth? 53

10. 54

And yet, there is something. A ray of sunlight, or the Form of the thing that we call by that name that wears that mask, is hitting my floor right now. It illumines (mask) and allows my eyes (mask) to see (mask). And that is not even all the masks in that sentence, for (mask) would then have to come after every word and phrase.55

11. 56

And there is truth. Can you find it by yourself?