Jason Roberts was having a bad trip.

He didn’t remember taking mushrooms the night before, but that only seemed to confirm how many he must have had. Either he was tripping his face off, or his brain had gone permanently off-script. Jason was desperately hoping for the drug option.

There were far too many people in this hallucination for comfort—hundreds, maybe more—all dressed like extras from a historical drama he’d slept through in high school. Men in somber doublets and long cloaks stood beneath fluted columns, their lace collars trembling as they spoke in thick, molasses-like accents. Powdered wigs bobbed like sea foam as they gestured, nodded, debated.

The hall itself was preposterously ornate. Carved marble spiraled up toward vaulted ceilings, and tall, arched windows poured golden afternoon light across polished stone. It looked like the Louvre had mated with a cathedral. Frankly, it was the least believable part of the whole experience. Nothing this cultured or elegant had ever come within a hundred miles of rural Minnesota.

Then a man stepped forward—black curls brushing his shoulders, a thin curled mustache resting above a pointed chin. His outfit was both ridiculous and exquisite: crimson velvet coat, white gloves, and a glimmer of silver at his throat.

“Mesdames et messieurs,” he declared, his voice grand and theatrical. “On this most hallowed day, we gather to hear from one of the towering intellects of our age. Here, amongst France’s finest minds, we shall contemplate the profound mysteries of existence. Pray, welcome Monsieur René Descartes, who shall now speak to us on the nature and meaning of life.”

He swept an arm toward Jason.

Every powdered head turned.

Jason blinked. His stomach dropped like a stone.

Public speaking nightmares were bad enough. This was public speaking in full French Enlightenment cosplay, in front of an audience with absolutely no sense of irony.

He stepped forward, trying to suppress the growing sense that this hallucination was rapidly evolving into a historical panic attack.

“Hello… all,” he said, raising his arms in what he hoped passed for a noble gesture. Only then did he register the bizarre outfit he was wearing—lace cuffs, knee breeches, and shoes with buckles that clicked far too loudly on the stone floor.

“Life, huh?” Jason began, forcing a smile. “My father used to say God put us on this earth to work and pay taxes.”

Silence. Polite, confused blinking.

He coughed, throat dry. “But truly… I don’t know if life has a meaning. One day your parents are going at it, the next—poof—you’re here. You’re handed a name and a vague sense of duty and told not to screw it all up.”

A few brows furrowed. Someone echoed quietly, “Poof?”

Jason pushed forward. “Maybe that’s why I was doing… uh… too many mushrooms.”

Another silence, deeper now.

Someone in the front row crossed themselves.

The room was so still he could hear the crackle of a candle somewhere behind him.

Then—someone cleared their throat. Another nodded slowly, with the reverence of a man who believed he’d just heard the foundations of metaphysics reshaped before his eyes. Murmurs swept through the crowd like wind over tall grass.

“Quelle étrange vérité…” someone whispered.

Another leaned toward his neighbor. “I believe he speaks metaphorically. The mushrooms, perhaps, represent the illusions of the senses.”

And then—applause. Polite at first. Then swelling into thunderous ovation.

Jason stood frozen as dozens of men in powdered wigs rose to their feet, clapping with academic fervor, as though he’d just unlocked the secrets of the soul instead of rambling his way through a nervous breakdown.

The announcer returned to the stage, eyes shining.

“Mesdames et messieurs, we have just borne witness to a radical reframing of metaphysical thought! A magnificent subversion of Cartesian clarity!”

Jason was swept off-stage in a swirl of velvet and adulation. A delicate goblet of wine was pressed into his hand. Someone asked when he might publish his next treatise. A man begged him to tutor his son.

It was chaos. It was theater. It was completely, utterly insane.

And then—darkness.

⸻

Jason woke in his own bed.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Outside, snow fell softly over Minnesota, still flat, still gray, still painfully literal.

Jason sat up slowly, half-expecting to see lace cuffs at his wrists. But no—just an old band tee and gym shorts.

He laughed aloud, relief and disbelief bubbling in his chest.

Then he noticed something sticking out from under his pillow.

It was a slip of paper, creased, the ink faded but unmistakably written in a careful, archaic hand:

“La vie commence avec le doute.”

“Life begins with doubt.” —R.D.