I sit cross-legged on my bed, my open laptop making a depression in the comforter in front of me. The tip of my index finger hovers over the Enter key, and the cursor blinks in and out of view at the end of my question in the browser search bar.
is reality a simulation?
I typed the question into the browser on my phone dozens of times throughout the day, but not once have I been brave enough to actually run the search. This moment is no different. I wuss out and reach for the wine glass on the nightstand instead. The bottle is there too, because my world has turned into one big what-the-fuck moment, and maybe I’m self-medicating, but at least I’m not losing my shit completely.
I sip from the glass, then take another sip before setting it back down on the nightstand. I take a deep breath and return to staring at the computer screen. Ever so gently, I rest my fingertip on the Enter key. I hold my breath and press down on the key.
The browser populates with about 200 million results. At least, that’s what it says at the top of the list of results. I’m not planning on scrolling through all of them to find out.
The first result is a Wikipedia article—no surprises there—which I skip for the second result, an article from a familiar publication: Scientific American. The know-like-trust marketing principle that shows up in all my marketing books in action. I skim the title of the article before clicking on the link.
Do We Live in a Simulation? Chances Are about 50-50. . .
I click and read through the article like it’s air and I’ve been underwater for the last three minutes. I learn that real, respected scientists are seriously considering the possibility that the nature of reality is less cut-and-dry than we think. I learn that some physicists, philosophers, roboticists, computer scientists, and engineers—even Elon-freaking-Musk—are proponents of something called the simulation argument.
When I reach the end of the article, I type “simulation argument” into the browser’s search bar and fall down a warped and twisted rabbit hole. I read commentary on Plato’s Republic and Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy. I skim summaries of stories by Isaac Asimov and Jules Verne. I never would have connected a theory about simulated reality to a philosopher like Plato, but there it is, right there on the screen.
Are we like those people in Plato’s cave, chained up in a cave and forced to experience the muted version of reality that plays out in front of us as shadows on a cave wall?
Am I breaking free of my chains, now able to recognize the shadows for what they are, and for what they aren’t—reality?
I return to the search results and scroll past a few academic entries to the bottom of the first page of results. A carousel displays movie posters related to my search. The Matrix is there, of course, but it’s the image to the right of the familiar movie that draws my attention: A Glitch in the Matrix. It’s a documentary. The ratings are mixed, but I log in to Netflix to watch it anyway.
I sit back, propping myself up with several pillows, and stretch out my legs, resting my laptop on my lap. Wine glass in hand, I settle in to watch the movie.
Nearly two hours and two glasses of wine later, the credits roll and I stare at the computer screen, not sure what to think. My eyes feel grainy and bleary, but I can’t make myself stop this obsessive search for answers. I know, in my gut, that I’m onto something. I can’t stop now.
I set my empty wineglass on the nightstand and return to the browser window. This time, I navigate to YouTube, where I find a video from the 2016 Isaac Asimov Memorial Debate titled Is the Universe a Simulation? (Hosted by Neil deGrasse Tyson). I click on the video because Neil deGrasse Tyson is America’s favorite astrophysicist—there’s that sneaky know-like-trust principle at work again.
I watch the panel of brilliant people discuss the possibility that reality is less than real, and when it’s over, I stare at the screen until the next video auto-plays. I shut the laptop and glance at the digital clock on my nightstand. The neon green numerals tell me it’s almost three in the morning. I have to be up in two hours to prepare to open the shop.
I slide the computer over to John’s side of the bed and scoot to the edge to stand. I groan as I get to my feet, arching my back and stretching my arms up toward the ceiling. My spine cracks deliciously, but I’m too distracted to enjoy the relief.
I pick up my wineglass and carry it into the bathroom, where I rinse out the final dregs of wine and dump the rose-colored water down the drain. I set the glass on the counter and mindlessly move through my nighttime routine. Once I’m washed up, I return to the bedroom and climb into bed. I turn off the lamp on the nightstand, roll onto my side, and close my eyes.
Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.
I’m exhausted, but my thoughts are like Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka in the tunnel scaring the bejesus out of Charlie and the other golden-ticket winners with his creeptastic song. They’re showing no signs of slowing, and I sure as hell didn’t have any idea where they were going.
I consciously picture sheep in my mind’s eye. Fluffy, white, wooly sheep. I imagine them lining up to jump over a wooden pasture fence.
But the wood transforms into scrolling green code, and the sheep mutate into robots, and my heart is suddenly pounding, the mental exercise having the opposite of the intended effect. I am now further from sleep than ever. Questions lurk around the shadowed edges of my mind, haunting me. Taunting me.
I open my eyes and stare at the far wall. Strips of moonlight filter in through the open blinds. I count them. Forty-two.
Is the world real?
I count the lines of moonlight on the wall again. Still forty-two.
Am I real?
I count the lines again. Forty-two, again.
Are my kids real?
Tears well, and I roll onto my back. I stare up at the ceiling fan for a few minutes, but it’s no more relaxing than the robotic sheep or the strips of moonlight. Giving up on sleep, I turn toward the nightstand and reach for my phone. I unplug it from the charger and succumb to my new obsession.
I find a forum filled with threads on various topics relating to simulation argument. A thread titled “I Saw the Simulation” draws my eye, and I open it to reveal an endless string of supposed first-hand experiences proving the world is a simulation.
I start to read, and I don’t stop until my alarm goes off, telling me to wake up.
Wake up. If only it were that simple.