THE LIMITS OF MY LANGUAGE MEAN THE LIMITS OF MY WORLD — SAID BY LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN

The words were whispered to me as my inFOLens scanned the navy-and-white poster, downloading its message onto my TMem. The accompanying picture was of a frowning man staring into a book that displayed diagrams of the stars, ignoring the night sky spread above him.

I studied this man, the downturn of his lips, the hunch of his back— I studied this man so I would not look at Xiana.

The problem with Xiana was that she was pretty.

She was so pretty I had to silence myself when she was around. She was so pretty that I didn’t understand how the school’s feeds weren’t filled with constant, unintentional chatter about it.

Xiana had dark hair, long and thick, that had defeated every elastic that had attempted to wrestle it into submission. She had strong, black eyebrows, dark brown eyes, and lips that she painted in various shades of purple.

She smiled like she knew more than you, and she was probably right. She smiled like she didn’t care what you thought of her, and, true to her smile, she waded through the tumultuous sea of our high school feeds as if she couldn’t hear the psychic messages that bounced up and down the halls.

Xiana knew that I thought she was pretty— it was the first thing I thought when I saw her, when we were too young to know when to silence ourselves on the feeds.

I knew that Xiana thought I was boring— it was a thought that had slipped from her mind when I had been in the middle of a biology presentation. She had thought it with such force that it couldn’t disappear in the chatter.

Xiana knew what I thought of her, and I knew what she thought of me.

“Why are you here?”

I couldn’t stop myself from looking. Her head was tilted ever so slightly, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt, which had fluorescent, mesh sleeves that didn’t match the delicate pink lace of her skirt.

The social feeds had been flooded with snide comments. Even well-meaning people had let their judgements slip into the chatter.

I was glad that feeds were shut off in detention, because I disagreed with popular opinion. Xiana made herself something worth seeing, something different. I was always looking for her these days, unsure why she would wear these things, but fascinated nonetheless.

“I wouldn’t join our chemistry class feed when asked,” I said.

“Why not?” Xiana asked, and I was faces with the nausea-inducing embarrassment that was my infatuation.

“I didn’t want them to know what I was thinking,” I said, aware of my blush. What a stupid answer from a stupid person.

Xiana didn’t think so. She twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “Fair enough. Guess that was obvious. Didn’t know you were that type of girl.”

I glanced at another poster that was glued above the blackboard.

THERE IS NO BAD THOUGHT THAT CANNOT BE FIXED WITH KINDNESS AND UNDERSTANDING, this one said to me in a voice that was not as calming as it should have been.

“I’m not,” I said.

“Seems like you’d have to be, or you wouldn’t have done it.”

That was hard to argue with.

“So maybe you could do me a favour?”

Her leg bounced, shaking the desk.

“What favour?” I asked.

She hesitated, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Then, quickly, she extended her arm towards me.

“Help me hide this.”

She held out something she had crumpled in her fist— a material with which I was not entirely unfamiliar, but which I saw so rarely.

Paper. Xiana was trying to give me a ball of paper.

My disbelief must have shown on my face. I looked around in alarm— we were the only people in the room, but there were cameras — how often were they checked?

A poster of a sunset sang softly to me, THE ONLY JUST SOCIETY IS BUILT ON EMPATHY.

“Is that—“ I began.

The poster cut me off: WHERE EMPATHY CANNOT BE EXPLAINED, IT MUST BE PROGRAMMED.

“You don’t need to know what it is,” Xiana said.

My heart was hammering against my ribcage.

“Jessie, please, they won’t check your pockets,” she begged.

Above her hung a poster dripping with irony.

STRONG IS A NATION WITHOUT MISINTERPRETATION.

I had never understood why these posters were everywhere— who would want to use strange visual codes as a method of communication? Who would willingly deprive themselves of the psycho-meta data that came with communication via the feeds?

The problem with Xiana is that she was pretty— so pretty that even the most pointless of actions looked appealing, crumpled up in her hand.

“Come on. They trust you.”

“Because I’m boring?”

Xiana’s brow furrowed for a moment in confusion, but then I heard a hand on the doorknob.

Xiana glanced to the door and I snatched the paper from her grasp and shoved it into my bag.

Mr. Kelly walked in and looked between us. Xiana smiled at him, blinking innocently.

I felt sweat roll down my neck.

“Miss Gardiner, you may go,” he said, “Miss Campos, I’ll need five more minutes.”

Outside of the school, my chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. I walked straight out into the football field. I needed the open space. I needed to see anyone who might approach.

I dropped my bag at centre field and stared up into the grey sky. I thought of the man in that poster, the stars hanging over his head and his eyes captured by the writing below.

I had never seen real stars.

I wanted to pull that paper out of my bag. I wanted it so badly that I was shaking. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.

I stared at my backpack on the wet grass.

“I owe you one,” Xiana said.

I was too worked up to be surprised.

“I didn’t mean to bring it to school. But seriously, I know how much trouble you can get into for having—“

“Shut up!” I said, turning to face her. “You can’t— you can’t just say that out loud!”

“Aren’t you silenced?” she asked.

“Not on the mandatory monitored feeds!” I said.

Xiana’s eyes widened.

“How do you not have a block?” she hissed.

“They’re illegal,” I replied.

“So is jaywalking.”

“I don’t jaywalk.”

“Of fucking course you don’t,” Xiana said, dropping her own bag in front of her.

She pulled out a small physical computer and sat, cross-legged, on the grass.

“What are you doing?” I finally asked.

Then I got an invite to a new, private feed.

I had had this dream before. It had been both a good dream and a nightmare.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Accept the invite, Jessie.”

So I did.

My thoughts have never been particularly disciplined, but I have been lucky enough to think few that might be deemed offensive.

Xiana was pretty. Xiana was pretty and thought I was boring and that pissed me off. Xiana was pretty and I didn’t know why she tried so hard to be different, but I wanted to understand more than I had ever wanted nearly anything else. My thoughts tumbled into the feed, an avalanche of feeling.

I looked down at Xiana. Xiana looked down at her computer, the tips of her ears reddening.

“The feed is encrypted,” she silently conveyed as we transferred our conversation to the virtual world. “It runs interference on government feeds. Anyone watching will think you’re trying to remember the name of a song you heard this morning.”

“That’s incredible,” I said, shame fading into wonder.

Xiana’s thoughts were well-controlled, but I still received a wave of bashful pleasure.

I sat on the grass in front of Xiana, who still didn’t look up.

“Did you want to know what was on the paper?” she asked.

“Yes,” I thought, before I could do the sensible thing and say no.

A memory flashed into my head— black markings on white page.

“It’s an alphabet. You use it to make words when you’re writing,” she said.

“Why?” I asked. “We have the feeds. They’re better.”

Disagreement. Nerves.

This was an act of trust, I realized suddenly.

“They make us think in straight lines,” she said, “invade our heads. We can’t become real people because they punish everything they don’t like.”

“We can understand each other better this way,” I said.

“Is that true? Who are they understanding? Who you are or who you’re trying to be?”

I didn’t know.

“When do you feel like yourself?” she asked, “When you’re in a feed, or when you’re silenced?”

She knew my answer the same moment I did.

“Writing didn’t work. Different words meant different things to different people. Everyone argued about poems and religion and politics, because everyone saw those things differently,” I said.

“Because we’re different people!” Xiana said. “What’s the point of us if we all have to have the same thoughts? Why not find the best human and kill the rest so he can be the only person, if all we are is the same guy in billions of bodies?”

I didn’t understand it, but I wanted it.

I didn’t understand her, but I wanted her.

Xiana finally looked up, registering that last thought. Her eyes were so dark and warm, her cheeks flushed.

She returned to typing.

“I’m not going to convince you today, and we can’t stay out here for too long. But let me make you a temporary block, and then you can think about it and decide if you want to learn more,” she said.

“I am not a rebel, Xiana,” I said.

“I don’t believe you,” Xiana replied.

With a triumphant flourish, she sent a file to my TMem, then shut her computer.

She climbed to her feet, then held out her hand.

I grabbed it.

She pulled me up, and for a moment, we just looked at each other.

I felt like I couldn’t be trusted.

She felt a strong disagreement.

“I’d be happy to teach you more. All you have to do is ask,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“No. Thank you. You saved my ass in there.”

“It’s a nice ass to save,” I thought, and was surprised to feel her amusement.

“And Jessie—“ Xiana said, a hand on my arm to delay my departure. “You’re not remembering right. I don’t think you’re boring. I think you’re bored.”

She kissed me on the cheek, and then, with a soft smile, turned around and walked away.

At home, in my room, I held the crumpled up paper that was Xiana’s unintended gift.

At home, in my mind, I fiddled with the file that was her intended gift.

HOW SMALL A THOUGHT IT TAKES TO FILL A LIFE SAID BY LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN, said a poster on my wall.

I open one, and then the other.