Damien Borne Eternity

A man stands proudly atop the steps of a university building in some far-off Block, greeting the academics as they enter.

This woman is a Lewisian metaphysician, working to develop a robust theory of time that can account for both the world of the living and the strange spatiotemporal properties exhibited here the Threshold. Her theories modelling peoples as five-dimensional aggregates of temporal parts, building on Lewis’ own four-dimensionalism, is a groundbreaking area of inquiry only possible in a place like this.

Behind her, a virtue ethicist, researching how agent-centred, rather than act-centred, moral theories may be more applicable in a world where moral agents exist eternally, and so individual actions make up an infinitely small – and thus arguably insignificant - portion of their existence (as opposed to their fundamental character traits which are significantly longer lived).

A few moments later, a physicist passes by and enters the building, a researcher known for their wild theories on the relationship between the mist and time, and how the mist itself may simply be an overabundance of the Threshold’s fundamental “building blocks”, an unnaturally dense collection of being, like creases in reality. A bold theory, but one that purportedly shows promise.

Beside them, a philosopher wishing to reframe Thomas Nagel’s paradox of death as misfortune with the additional knowledge that those of us who die can still be the subject of experiences, the targets of misfortune, and that death does not, as Nagel thought, deprive the misfortune of its subject, but rather places the subject of the misfortune in a realm spatiotemporally disconnected from what makes their situation unfortunate. Of course, what this means for the living is still an open question.

And then comes the students. Those wishing to learn. The man smiles as they pass. Some of them will have read his works already. Others will soon get the chance. Some may never touch them at all. But all the same, the man can be sure that he has built something here. A place that will continue to think, to challenge the world around it, to seek answers. An academic institution that, to coin a new paradox, might outlive even the immortal.

After the last of the students enter the building, the man turns and follows them inside, passing under the stone facade that proudly reads, in bold letters:

THE BORNE INSTITUTE

Were you to look up the definition of ‘life’ in a biology textbook, or sit-in on an appropriate lecture, you would probably be told a very physical story about biological processes. In the course of my education, I was taught that to be alive, one must move, and respire, and grow, and excrete, and so forth. These are all things that I can do now, in the Threshold; but I am dead, so something must be missing. That is, since I am not now alive, there must be some criteria for living that I no longer fulfill. In the course of this essay, I would like to find it.

This might seem like a rather pointless exercise. We know we are dead; why should we need or want to know precisely why? In my case, because I am not so convinced that we are dead, at least in any meaningful sense. In your case, hopefully because that seems such a deranged claim that you wish to read on in a kind of morbid fascination. Of course we are dead! This is the afterlife; we are ghosts, or memories, of our past selves. Some of us, and I am among that number, remember dying! It has been immediately and obviously clear to me, right from my arrival, that I am dead. And yet - the Threshold is not, on the surface, all that different to what I remember of life. I can move, and talk, and eat, and sleep. I can think and feel. So I began to ponder a question: what is it that our existence here is missing, in order to be called life? I was, at first, convinced that some answer would reveal itself to me. None has - or at least, none that I find satisfying.

Let us consider the possible senses of ‘life’. There is, first, the biological one, as discussed above. A thing is alive per this definition if it is capable of certain biological functions: moving, eating, growing, respiring, excreting, reproducing, etc. And there do seem to be certain biological functions that we cannot complete: reproduction comes to mind in particular. It is also the case that certain processes, like respiring or eating, are not so necessary here, but this does not change our ability to perform them. So is it our inability to reproduce that renders us dead? This seems, to put it lightly, absurd. I do not mean, here, to question the biological definition. (It also should be noted that this definition, itself, is more nuanced than my explanation gives it credit for; a man with a vasectomy would not be considered biologically ‘dead’. Yet it almost certainly is not meant to include creatures for whom reproduction is even theoretically impossible.)

But I do mean to question the significance of this definition. Biologists are entitled to define ‘life’, as a scientific term, in whatever way is most useful for their studies. And we are entitled to decide that this scientific term has little use in practical life. Certainly if reproduction is the only thing holding us back from life, then I do not mind being dead all that much.

My point is, the ability to reproduce is not a particularly important difference. Are there more important ones? Another sense of ‘life’ relates to consciousness, instead of biological processes. On this understanding, you are alive if you retain all, or even some, of your cognitive functions - if you can reason, and deduce, and feel emotions, and hold beliefs. Of course, this is a more narrow definition - it could not apply to bacteria or plants, for example. Yet it seems to capture some important property when it comes to humans, and other intelligent animals. Someone who has suffered a severe head injury and is now in a vegetative state is ‘alive’, but not in any meaningful sense. Regardless of whether their heart is technically beating, they cannot live. In fact, we often make a distinction between surviving and living in common language, and I think the difference between the two definitions I have given so far precisely matches this split.

I bring this up because I want to point out a detail that, to me at least, seems quite crucial: that I am, per this definition, also alive. I can reason, and deduce, and feel emotions, and hold beliefs. In fact, my mind has changed very little, functionally, compared to what I remember of it from life - and I remember my life, and my mind in particular, remarkably well. I experience all the same emotions, and sensations. My thoughts run along similar tracks - and even if I were of radically different mind now as I were in life, importantly I would still be thinking, in general.

There is one difference, however, which I think contains the crux of the matter, and will provide us with a third definition of ‘life’. It came to my attention as the consequence of a rather unfortunate sequence of events, which it would do no good to reproduce here. Suffice to say, I was given reason to wonder about the intensity of experiences and sensations in the Threshold. Because as an empirical matter of fact, certain experiences do seem less intense than I and those I know expect or remember from life. A common example is hunger, the sensation of which is dulled or entirely missing. I conducted a brief experiment in which I ate nothing for two weeks, and found that I felt no pain or lack - excepting the lack of hunger itself, which I found deeply offputting. This is merely anecdotal evidence, but you are welcome to repeat the experiment yourself.

Similarly, the sensation of fullness is less vivid, and again practically non-existent. Food is not satisfying to eat, like in life; the experience is empty. Even after starving myself, I felt very little upon consuming a large steak. And this is true of many other sensations besides, to the degree that some residents of my block have reported feeling that their entire existence in the Threshold is empty. Everything feels less rich than life - or simply feels lackluster and dull, even without comparison to the past. I’m sure many of those reading this will be able to relate to such experiences. And that’s terrifying, given that we have now learnt that we are fated to exist here apparently forever: an endless existence of empty monotony, devoid of strong sensations.

Fortunately, that’s not the whole story, for there are some vivid, rich, full experiences in the Threshold. I, for example, find the study of philosophy deeply fulfilling, and no less so than in life. This probably won’t appeal to everyone, so I recently compiled a list of examples from others in my block. It had myriad items, some of which I will again avoid reproducing, but which included reading, making art, conversation, playing chess, gardening, etc. What stands out here is that none of these are purely physical pleasures. Most are derived internally; you don’t tend to enjoy gardening because of the physical sensation of dirt and plants, but because of the mental satisfaction and relaxation that results from tending to nature. The others are derived externally, yet all involve other people. The pleasure of conversation, or of chess or other games, lies in interacting with the complex internal worlds of fellow humans.

Indeed, on closer reflection I find that all my rich and vivid experiences in the Threshold have been produced, to some significant extent, from a person, whether that be myself or someone else. By contrast, all those experiences that result mainly from external objects are dull and listless. Why should this be true? In life, there was no difference in intensity between sensations caused by people and those caused by physical objects, and that makes sense, because people were physical objects. More importantly, in life people were the same kind of thing, and therefore just as real, as anything else.

In the Threshold, this does not seem to hold. I am led to believe, by various sources, that the plane we now inhabit is built fundamentally from memory - our memory. Everything, from the food we eat to the buildings we inhabit to the stars overhead, is an idea, a thought projected outwards such that we and others can interact with it. Everything, that is, except the others. The people here are not memories, nor ideas, but simply minds, fully-fledged and real. And whereas memories fade and dull over time, and the sensations they cause are less intense than the experience that they are a memory of, people are just as rich and vivid as they were in life. Thus, experiences that have their roots in you or the people around you are full and satisfying, and those that result only from physical objects are lackluster and empty.

Sadly, I do not have much strong evidence for this metaphysical theory to hand. My primary source has had their memory wiped, and the next strongest piece of evidence does not bear repeating here. It seems that Psychopomp and its employees share this view of the world, but I can understand that they may be considered untrustworthy as a source. What I offer is the fact of my own belief, along with a series of strange truths that you can easily verify empirically, and which this model quite neatly explains. The first is what I have discussed above, regarding the intensity of different sensations. The next is the stars: you will have noticed that they change position when you look away from them, but what you may not be aware of is that they also look different to different people. This makes sense: if they were the same for everyone, but also changed whenever anyone looked away, then you could see them change while you were still looking at them, whenever anyone else also looking at them blinked. This does not happen; and you can verify this further by attempting to map them out and comparing with someone else.

Under the model given above, this can be explained by the stars being a particularly vague memory; every time they move, we are remembering a different night sky, from sometime in our lives. The model similarly explains why you can navigate a block without knowing which route to take, simply by intending to get to a certain place: in a world of memory and thought, intentions have real, visceral consequences. None of this, of course, is certain evidence; but hopefully it will serve to be somewhat convincing, particularly given the absence of any coherent alternate explanation, at least to my knowledge.

I mentioned that this path of thought would give rise to a third definition of ‘life’, and it is thus: life in the sense of feeling alive, of experiencing fully and intensely. Life in the sense of finding a purpose, and a place, and people to care about you, and feeling fulfilled and satisfied. It is in this sense that one might say, of an old person kept alive only by constant medical care, who suffers constantly and has no close family to care about them, and no prospects for their future, that they are not really living.

And this, I think, is the chief concern of many here in the Threshold, particularly now that the truth about Ascension has been revealed. That although we may retain all our biological and mental faculties from life, we can never live here; that our experiences are empty, and meaningless, and our existences without purpose. Even if we eke out some happiness, it will always be temporary, and we have eternity to contend with. If it is true that the Threshold is made from memories, everything we ever do, every sensation we ever have, will always be a mere shadow or echo of our lives. And that’s the crucial difference, the key missing criteria for us to be alive now: we cannot ever experience anything new, or meaningful, or significant.

Do not be so quick to despair, I beg of you. The Threshold is not just memories; as I described above, it is people as well. Real, genuine, complex, unpredictable people. Some experiences may be dull and empty and recycled, sure; but those with their source in ourselves or others are not, for we aren’t memories. We, as the human species, are capable of producing novel ideas and sensations, even here. We are capable of making the Threshold as vibrant and alive as life ever was. Already, in my block, projects have begun to do exactly that. There are plans to plant forests; plays have been performed, and art created; games have been lost and won; love and joy have been shared.

Our existence here will require change, in order to be fulfilling. Simple pleasures, like drugs or alcohol or food, won’t satisfy in the same measure as they once did. Yet this need not hold us back. We will find our comfort, and our happiness and joy, in other people; we will make friends, and form relationships as we did in life, and they will make us feel just as alive as they ever did, and perhaps more. Introspection and human interaction will provide for us where physical pleasures cannot.

And so I reach my conclusion: in every meaningful sense, we are or can be alive in the Threshold. What does this mean for you? It means that you need not fear the endless life - for it is a life - to come. There are billions, perhaps trillions, of people here, each unique and wondrous in their own way. Even if they were all to remain static, and unchanging, interacting with them all and exhausting the new experiences they can provide you with would take at least as many years. But they will not stay still. We can change here, just as we can in life, and in changing provide fulfillment for ourselves, and for those around us. The Threshold is not different in kind from life, merely purer. There are no distractions, here, from ourselves and from others - not even the distraction of death. All that matters is people; and people matter just as much as they ever have, that is a great deal indeed.

So go! Find your place here, in this new world. Do not bother yourselves with material greed or physical pleasures; rather, find people who interest you, who fill your life with laughter and joy and satisfaction. Take the time to introspect, and sort through your own thoughts. Choose a purpose, and let it take you where it will, and once the fires of your passion have burnt low, look upon yourself and see that you are made anew; and then choose again, for your preferred purpose will be different now. Fear not eternity: your freedom is yet more endless than infinity, and all time will never exhaust the wealth of emotion and thought possessed by humanity. This place is not a prison, but a brave new dawn. Open your eyes, and gaze upon the sunrise!

– by Ben OR