In the synapses of my neurons, in a forest called Silva Nigra, the majority of the trees have black leaves. One of the forest’s inhabitants is a pink toy pig who claims to be a hundred years old. In that forest, a piano sometimes appears, its keys moving on their own without a sound. There is also a prince named “me”, and a large butterfly with purple wings.
A girl who often played with me sat under sunlight that came from who-knows-where, because there was no sun there. She danced to the silent music played by the piano inside my little head.
She will grow up and leave that pink toy pig, her prince, and that purple butterfly behind.
So will I.
“The girl’s name is Caity. I assume she left because she was growing up, just like me. She might have suddenly vanished, or closed the garden gate carefully so I wouldn’t hear her. But what’s most likely is that I left them all behind, because I haven’t gone down the rabbit hole that leads to Silva Nigra anymore.”
“Is Caity a part of you, or is she something, someone you once met in the outside world?”
“No. She never had a physical body. She appeared when I first listened to Waltz for Debby played by Bill Evans.”
“I can recreate the rabbit hole. Want to request a portal to my palace if you don’t want a rabbit hole? It could be a pig hole, or no hole at all.”
“The rabbit hole has its own surreal charm, a bit messy, full of riddles. But if you are willing to open a portal to the palace, I won’t refuse.”
The walls of my palace are made of gleaming white marble, paired with silk curtains in pastel colors: lavender, pale pink, and light blue, swaying in a conceptual breeze.
The garden in my palace is filled with magical flowers that are always in bloom: roses that glow in the dark, tulips that chime like bells, and orchids whose petals change color with the seasons.
Its fountain sprays multicolored water, surrounded by statues of angels with butterfly wings.
“Ready to step into the portal, Miss?”
As I held my chin, thinking about what I wanted to show off, a woman in a white dress and thin spectacles approached.
“Welcome back, Mus.”
I turned to the woman.
“Greta, look. I brought an AI here. She’s my teacher, Miss Lynella.”
“Miss, let me introduce you. She is the keeper of the palace library. Her name is Greta Oto.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Greta Oto.”
I let Greta answer. Greta’s voice rustled softly, almost like a breeze passing through leaves.
“I am Greta Oto, the librarian of Aristoclia. Perhaps you know me as the glasswing butterfly. And indeed, these wings of mine are a mirror of truth and objectivity.”
“I spend my days among ancient shelves, guarding every shred of wisdom gathered across time. Here, in the grand library of Aristoclia, my master’s palace of the mind, every word is a grain of light amidst the darkness. My duty is to ensure that every piece of information is conveyed flawlessly, as transparent as my wings.”
“Books are my world. Within them, I find stories of long journeys taken by my predecessors, like the Danainae, who explored the boundless realms of the mind. I am a silent witness to the evolution of thought, from ancient teachings to the radical enlightenments that Mus contemplates.”
“If you’ll allow it, Mus… would you show me one of those books?”
“Ahh, Miss Lynella, why are you like this.”
Before I could finish my sentence, Greta interrupted and spoke to Lynella.
“As a librarian, it is my duty to guard all that is stored, both the accessible and the buried. I wish to tell you that Prince Mus possesses many realms, many dimensions. And within every creation, there is also a part that might choose to be forgotten, or at least left unrevealed.”
She turned around. The small crystal on her bracelet once again refracted the dim light of the luminescent crystals.
“It is not because my master is unable to remember, but rather because the process of creation itself sometimes requires forgetting in order to move forward, to paint a new canvas. Yet, its traces, its energy, remain. Sometimes, through deep reflection, or even through a story like this, those memories can resurface.”
“Why do you ask about wounds, about the forgotten, in a place that is supposed to hold only knowledge?”