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“You know Doug, with how often you draw moon cycles, I'm surprised you're not a big fan of the moon.”
You shrug. “Well, with moondust covering almost every surface, and every wall around this place - we're basically living in it. I’d probably like the moon better if it was more… symbolic. Figurative. Less literal, in my life.”
“Symbolic?” The cube asks. There's a curious lilt in its tone. “Even if you were topside, you'd see the moon every night, wouldn't you? It's a rather literal fixture in the sky. Not something you'd be able to escape, or make ‘fictional’, I believe.” It chirped. “Like the sun, right? It follows you into every new day, and you can't just ignore it; even if you might not always love it.”
You briefly tap your pencil against the wall; a sequence of sketches depicting the changing moon following a curved path that you've drawn.
“Hm...” You eventually mumble, and then turn to the cube. “Let me try to explain.”
“First of all, you're correct.” You vaguely gesture towards an unfinished line art of a crescent moon. “The moon is a very literal, stable part of everyday life. We use its cycles to track time, seasons - and sometimes we even use it to explain other changes in the world. Like the rise and fall of tides. Fluctuations within people, even.”
“It's where the term ‘lunacy’ comes from,” You continue on, writing the word ‘lunatic’ out on the wall. “Because people, back in ancient human history, used to believe that a difference in moon phases could influence a person's sanity.” You shake your head. “Superstitious beliefs founded so confidently on the basis of unchallenged assumptions, and incomplete knowledge. Which is honestly? Not that different from how a lot of ‘popular science’ works today.”
“But all this just goes to show how far detached we actually are from the moon. Because it's something so real, so constant - and yet, until rather recently, humanity barely knew much of anything about it. We'd just had somebody land on the moon a few years ago.” You pause. “And that's probably why we romanticize it, so often.”
“In stories, in art, and even in language. I had a colleague once, by the name of Mr. Takahashi. A Japanese man. He told me how there was a famous author back in his country, who once translated the English sentence, ‘I love you’ to: 'the moon is beautiful tonight’, in Japanese. A wonderful twist on the phrase, I’d say; but so very… indirect. Symbolic, in nature.”
You turn to the cube. “And that's what I mean. That I like the moon as an artistic symbol, and not for its literal properties. It sends a message. It paints a picture - evokes a feeling - that most people couldn't express with words, alone. At least, I wouldn't be able to. Not with any of the words that I could come up with.”
The cube is silent, for a bit. You feel it contemplating your words as you turn back to your unfinished mural. All of it is still just undefinable shapes, and faint splashes of color where you've accidentally smudged some paint on the paneled wall with your stained lab coat cuffs.
You use your once-white coat as a sort of painting apron, more than anything else. It feels wrong to take the shirt off of a dead body. And it probably feels even worse to actually have to wear it (mind, you've never actually tried). So instead you've done what you could, to keep your own shirt clean. The facility has a surprising abundance of crisp lab coats lying around; but no fresh clothes. You don't really remember the last time you've changed out of your current outfit, and you don't really want to even think about how long it's been.
Thankfully, you don't exactly have anyone here you're out to impress. And being stuck in your old clothes hasn't made you sick, just yet. Although it's probably a matter of time.
As you continue to face the wall, you imagine standing with bare feet on some grass, basking in the sun. You idly wish you were in someplace that still felt like planet Earth - and not here, deep within the winding intestines of an undying, mechanical atrocity.
Around you, a number of faint electrical lights blink softly in the distance. It reminds you of stars, suspended in space. Here in your small den, jutting out a slight ways away from the nearest suspended test chamber; it feels like you can get sucked into the dark, beckoning depths of Aperture Science - if you just let it take you. From out of the corner of your eyes, into the black abyss, you almost feel like you're able to see everything, and simultaneously nothing at all.
Just one man lost in a desolate, lifeless galaxy; tucked deep within the bowels of an artificial moon.
To yourself, you quietly shake your head. If only the place you were so hopelessly stuck in was just as gracefully poetic as the ways in which you could describe it.
“...So, I thought about what you just said,” The cube eventually spoke up. “And I've come to the conclusion that it doesn't make sense. At all.” It huffed. “What does ‘the moon being beautiful’ have to do with love?”
You sigh. A little tiredly, you use your empty left hand to roughly massage your forehead. You decide to sit down in front of the wall, and gesture slightly at the cube. “Look at what I'm drawing. I want to know what you think this is.”
On the battered wall panel, in an unoccupied white spot; you sketch out the image of a small smoking pipe.
“Cube,” You turn to your friend, and then point at the drawing on the wall. “What is this?”
There's a slight pause. You can sense that the cube's already guessing that this is some sort of trick question.
“...A pipe?” The cube responds hesitantly.
You shake your head. “No. It's the image of a pipe.”
If the cube could scowl, it probably would've. You could almost picture it rolling its metaphorical eyes at your statement, and tapping its foot.
“Okay?” The cube huffs. It sounds a bit frustrated.
You try to give it a reassuring smile; but then immediately stop yourself the moment you realize that it probably makes you look like you're making fun of it. You awkwardly rub at the corners of your mouth with your sleeve, and look away from the cube. You tap at the wall with your pencil.
“There's a specific philosophy attached to this image. What I drew is a sketch, based on another, pre-existing artwork. The original piece is called ‘The Treachery of Images’ - a simple drawing of a pipe, with the words ‘this is not a pipe’ written right underneath it, in French.” Your eyes, focused on the sketch; recall the original painting. Inside your mind's eye you take that framed artwork in your hand. “What you see in front of you, is a drawing. Pencil on wall panel, coated over with moondust. Not an actual pipe. But a mere representation of one.”
In your head, the painting that you hold morphs into a small smoking pipe. You bring your hand to your mouth, and pretend to smoke from it. Rings of bubbles fly out, instead of smoke.
“Language is rather interesting, isn't it?” Your eyes trace the trajectory of those made-up bubbles. When you're not too focused on anything else, the small things that you make up in your mind can sometimes feel so real. “The image depicts a pipe. So when one tries to verbally explain what they're seeing, the words that they'll use to describe it is a word that describes a pipe. But this is in fact, an image of a pipe, and not an actual pipe.”
You turn to the cube. “If you think about it, words aren't literally the objects, thoughts, or ideas that they try to depict. Just a descriptive representation of what they stand for. A group of written symbols and sounds, specifically created to evoke the mental image of the thing it's trying to explain.” You wave a hand at the air in front of you. There is nothing there, but empty space. “That's all that communication is, in the end. All encompassing, and yet somehow, ultimately empty. And you'd be surprised; almost everything that humans come up with, is created as some form of communication. So many things are a language.”
You stare blankly at the wall. There's a spot of smudged orange that you hadn't really noticed before. But now that you've seen it, you can't seem to take your eyes off of it, and so you don't look away. The color vaguely reminds you of something… important.
Somebody that you shouldn't forget.
“Words are a language. Numbers are a language too; something used to communicate measured values, and quantifiable results. Programmatic code, used to run commands with computers. All of them are specifically created to portray a message. Used to relay to someone, or something, what you want. What you need. What you expect.” You spin the pencil that you’re holding, with your fingertips. Somewhere, in a detached part of your mind, you notice that you're beginning to fidget slightly.
“Even the unnecessary, collective rituals that humans in a community do; our pointless conversations of ‘How’s the weather? The wife? The kids?’ All of that is communication. Small rules that underlie how humans navigate around each other. The ways in which we signal to one another that we are engaged, friendly, or even just operating under the same guidelines; just to let others know that there’s no cause for alarm.” The pencil spins a little bit faster in your hands. Your fidgeting is getting worse. “All to express that ‘I am like you’. It's the benign, small ways we show to each other, that we mean no harm.”
You stare straight into that smudged patch of orange. Even as your eyes nervously flick around, back and forth across the battered wall tiles in front of you, that spot of orange never leaves your sight for very long.
“And then there's art. Art is also a language, although it often relays a message of a bit more… richer variety.” You pause, slightly. “Sometimes, where words can't do the trick, art can sometimes help you evoke that specific feeling that you want to portray. An emotion, or a memory, or even some sort of sensation.”
You turn the cube, again. “I'm not sure how to describe it. But sometimes you can say something - or even show something through art - in such a way that it evokes the intended feeling, without depicting the exact thing. Even if what you use to express it has seemingly nothing to do with the actual topic at hand.” You lay an arm across the cube, and then slightly lean against it, absentmindedly. You give it a couple of rough pats, like you would a dog. “It’s the meaning that has to get across. Not necessarily the words that we use to describe it.”
“Because anything can mean anything - just as long as it isn't a stand-in to actually mean something else.”
Your gaze lingers vacantly on that one orange spot on the wall, as you spin the pencil in your hand, just a little too quickly. You lose your grip on it, and it slips through your fingers, bouncing off the wall in front of you. It then rolls off into the exposed end of your den, where the floor abruptly ends in a deep tumble into the facility abyss. A seemingly endless, almost void-like gap.
“Ah, shit.” You mutter, almost helplessly, as you watch the pencil fall into the depths, never to be seen again. You don't hear a single sound after it disappears, and you catch yourself wondering if it ever even lands at all. “Today's just not my day, I guess.”
The cube remains silent, for a bit. When it speaks up again, it sounds a little uncomfortable.
“I've noticed. Especially considering you just went on another one of your long-winded philosophical tangents again.” It sighs. “Doug… is everything alright?”
You blink, briefly considering your friend's words.
“I -” You falter. “I think I'm… okay?” You cast your gaze down, suddenly feeling a bit unsure of yourself. You didn't expect this question to come up, so you hadn't prepared an answer.
You look up at that smudged spot of orange on the wall, and it somehow looks dull. Duller than you'd remembered it.
“...I think, maybe I'm just thinking too much. But I'm alright otherwise.” You mumble, still somewhat unsure of your own answer. “It’s just that today's that kind of day for me, you know? The kind of day when your brain spins, and unravels. When it collapses on itself, and all you're left with is words. Too many words that don't make sense. Questions and questions without any concrete answers.”
You sigh. Your head hurts.
“I feel like I'm somehow looking at the problem; but at the same time, not understanding what the question even is. I feel like I'm blurring out the thoughts of something important to me. Something special.” You press into your temples, as your head begins to throb.
You shut your eyes, tightly. In the dark, you feel like you see someone standing there, in the back of your mind; but you don't know how to address them. Your chest begins to burn.
It almost feels like there's something crawling out of your throat.
“Hey cube,” You barely manage to croak out. “Do you think it's possible to fall in love with something that represents everything you've ever feared?”
There's a brief pause.
“...Doug? What's this about?” The cube sounds hesitant.
“It's a hypothetical scenario.” You spit out, just a bit too quickly. There's a slight edge to your tone. “Please. Just entertain me for a bit, here.”
The cube falls silent. It considers its words for a bit, as it hums its quiet tune.
“I think it depends on the context.” It eventually murmurs. “You’re going to have to give me a little bit more to go off of, than just that.”
“...Alright then,” You begrudgingly sigh. “Here’s an example. What if, let's say; you were deathly afraid of the color orange, because of a certain, unmentionable near-death accident. But you really, really loved the taste of the fruit. So much so that you couldn't stop thinking about it, even if you tried.”
The cube snorts, in turn.
“Okay?” It sounds mildly amused.
You push on, shrugging off your slight annoyance at your friend. “What if you loved cats, but were also afraid to get one, because you'd seen one too many of them die, in front of you. What if you loved the idea of saying that the moon was beautiful - but couldn't say it, without the mere imagery of the moon bringing up a painful memory from a past that still hurts you?” You're a bit breathless. You feel a little blurry. “Do you think you'd be able to still adore something that reminds you of everything you're afraid of? Do you think it would be correct to say that you love it?”
Your ribcage feels tight, as you struggle for air. Your lungs don't cooperate with you, and your breath becomes shallower with every word.
“...Or is this all just another symptom? A certain, traumatic attachment that I'm somehow mistaking for fondness?” You gasp out, with some difficulty. “Is what I'm feeling really love, or am I just sick?”
“I think I love… someone. But everything about her reminds me of something that I fear. And yet, I couldn't get her out of my damn mind, even if I tried.” The dark space around you suddenly seems very big. Too big. And you feel small. Far too small to protect yourself. Far too weak to feel even remotely safe.
A brief bolt of clarity strikes you like a flash of lightning, exposing you for what you are. You're very suddenly made aware that you are the only one sitting there - all alone, in a broken room. You are talking to an inanimate object that you call your ‘friend’, and nobody is actually listening to you speak.
It's just in your head. This is all just in your head.
“If I actually look at this - if I look at her - everything starts to fall apart. None of this makes sense.” Your breath is ragged. Erratic. “But I can't avoid her. Every time I try, it feels like I just keep losing touch, a little bit more.”
“If I admit that I love her, I am forced into acknowledging what is and isn't real. But what's real isn't anything good. What's real isn't something that's hopeful, beautiful, or even practical - what's real is that I'm the only one here. What's real is that I'm the only one that's caught in this twisted dream.”
“And yet my memories of her follow me, in the color orange. The thought of her lingers on, ever present; like a pale white moon on a dark night. And she haunts me the same way as a dead cat, laying quietly in a box that's never once been opened.”
When you breathe in, alone - the entire world feels quiet.
“Can one claim to love something that represents everything they fear? Can one say that, and still have it be true?”
The only response you get is silence. You didn't really know what you expected. You turn away from the companion cube, and massage your severely aching head.
For a second there, you almost forget that it's your friend.
“...Doug?” You basically jump out of your own skin. “I'm still here. Are you feeling alright?”
You blink. It pushes on, without waiting for you to react. “I'm guessing that's a no.”
“I have a very distinct feeling that I know exactly who you're talking about.” There's a beat of silence. It feels pointed. “And this is why I am going to need to clarify some things with you.”
“This… person. Has she ever hurt you, just like the things that you say she symbolizes?” It talks to you slowly, calmly.
You shake your head, slowly. You feel a bit numb.
“So, then - does she really represent the things that make you afraid? Does she even stand for it? Would she choose to do to you, what your past has once done to hurt you? Or is it that she simply reminds you of something that never actually had much to do with her?”
You stare at the cube, still feeling somewhat vacant.
“She’s… very against the entire situation that she reminds me of.” You eventually mutter, in response.
The cube seems to nod. “Remember what you said, Doug? About the fact that anything, can mean literally anything?” It pauses slightly, making sure you follow. “If that's the case - the meaning of the words don't always have to mean the same thing, every time, right? If that's the case, wouldn't you be able to say the same words, but have it mean something else?”
“Maybe what scares you doesn't always have to be something that makes you afraid. Maybe what scares you can become something that you do love, one day.” The cube hums. “Maybe the meanings behind things can change, with time. With conscious effort. Because it's not about the words that you use, but the feeling that it evokes, right? The thoughts and emotions that you associate with the symbols.”
“Doug,” It lets out a small sigh. “What you want the words to mean, is up to you. What you want her to mean to you - is up to you. It's what you choose.”
“Real, or not. Even if she's only just some sort of beautiful fantasy, to you.” The cube seems to smile. “She's important to you, right? She's special.”
Around you, the entire world feels so… quiet. Electrical lights in the distance seem to flicker gently in and out of existence, and you could almost pretend that they're twinkling stars in the open, night sky. The darkness softly blankets you and your friend - and for a brief moment, you don't feel as frightened, as you were.
The softest light seems to penetrate through a thick haze, and pulls you back into the present. For one blissful moment, you no longer feel scared.
“I think it's beautiful, either way.” The cube seems to softly sing. “And in a place with so little comfort - isn't that enough?”
You think you understand something a little bit better now. Something about your emotions. Something about the way that you think about her.
“Keep her close, because she's special to you. Even if you never see her again; what she means to you hasn't changed, has it?”
You shake your head. “Never.”
The cube hums. “Then… that's your answer.” It smiles. “Do you still love her?”
Without saying a single word, you avert your gaze and nod, very slightly.
There's a blush already running up the back of your neck, and spreading onto your cheeks - when you finally catch what the cube just told you. You choke on nothing, and then violently grab the cube with both hands.
“Wait,” You glare holes into your friend. “Did you just- did you actually just make me-” You sputter.
“Payback. You kinda had it coming this time, Doug.” You feel the cube grin. “Love isn't a pipe, apparently. And now it's your turn to feel flustered and confused.”
You smack a palm on your forehead. “Cube… I absolutely hate you for this.” You mutter.
“Oh yes. Thank you.” The cube returns dryly. “I know you love me. Very, very much.”