Story Time!
This one's from college, and it's much better. Please enjoy.
A man wanders about a darkened house late at night, searching for a flashlight. There’s a blackout on, and he recalls in his mind images of the house when it was light, when it was visible, when he could trust his senses to tell him what to do. His feet carry him to the stairs well enough, though the terrain is different than he expects. He questions his memory, and shrugs it off, descending the steps, hand feeling along the wall for familiar things. He wonders where his framed landscape pictures went, feeling the blank wall, and his feet respond in pain as he stubs his toe on the doorframe. He loses his balance, tumbling forward and turning around in the inky blackness of his basement. He hears the clomp of feet coming down the stairs. He listens, and is relieved to hear four of them. He awaits the companionship of his faithful dog, no doubt coming to aid him with his inhumanly enhanced senses. He holds his hand out to pet the panting form in front of him, and feels hair longer than he thought his dog’s was, and a tongue much smaller than he expected his dog’s to be. Before he has time to doubt his memory again, however, the lights come back on in a blinding flash, and as his eyes refocus, accepting the light and vision again, he stares into the inhuman eyes of the crazed lunatic before him, crouched on all fours, the man’s hand in his mouth, and the blood-matted fur of his dog between his teeth.
A man awakens in a hospital, and finds his hand gone. Amputated. The police inform him of the neighbor’s call regarding the shriek from his basement, which he dimly realizes must have been his. He inquires about the hand, and finds that the psychopath had been living in garbage since his escape, days ago, and the filth he carried infected the bite wounds to the point that amputation was the only option.
A man stands on his own porch, gazing into his house through the glass porthole in the door. He will stand there for a few minutes more, then he will rush into the house, turning on every light available, to ward off the coming sunset. This man will sleep with a flashlight in his hand, a flashlight under his pillow for backup, matches and a candle on the nightstand, and every light in the house blazing for the rest of his life.
What makes a good central belief? It should have no holes, be versatile, supporting other beliefs well, should sync with reality, and should certainly not be based on sense-data. How can one repair a shattered central belief? I think the answer lies with psychology. One must let go of pride, realize how wrong and mistaken one was, and re-evaluate one’s world from a blank slate. Everyone falls sometime, but its how fast you get up that matters.
A man wanders about a darkened house late at night, searching for a flashlight. There’s a blackout on, and he recalls in his mind images of the house when it was light, when it was visible, when he could trust his senses to tell him what to do. His feet carry him to the stairs well enough, though the terrain is different than he expects. He questions his memory, and shrugs it off, descending the steps, hand feeling along the wall for familiar things. He wonders where his framed landscape pictures went, feeling the blank wall, and his feet respond in pain as he stubs his toe on the doorframe. He loses his balance, tumbling forward and turning around in the inky blackness of his basement. He hears the clomp of feet coming down the stairs. He listens, and is relieved to hear four of them. He awaits the companionship of his faithful dog, no doubt coming to aid him with his inhumanly enhanced senses. He holds his hand out to pet the panting form in front of him, and feels hair longer than he thought his dog’s was, and a tongue much smaller than he expected his dog’s to be. Before he has time to doubt his memory again, however, the lights come back on in a blinding flash, and as his eyes refocus, accepting the light and vision again, he stares into the inhuman eyes of the crazed lunatic before him, crouched on all fours, the man’s hand in his mouth, and the blood-matted fur of his dog between his teeth.
A man awakens in a hospital, and finds his hand gone. Amputated. The police inform him of the neighbor’s call regarding the shriek from his basement, which he dimly realizes must have been his. He inquires about the hand, and finds that the psychopath had been living in garbage since his escape, days ago, and the filth he carried infected the bite wounds to the point that amputation was the only option.
A man stands on his own porch, gazing into his house through the glass porthole in the door. He will stand there for a few minutes more, then he will rush into the house, turning on every light available, to ward off the coming sunset. This man will sleep with a flashlight in his hand, a flashlight under his pillow for backup, matches and a candle on the nightstand, and every light in the house blazing for the rest of his life.
What makes a good central belief? It should have no holes, be versatile, supporting other beliefs well, should sync with reality, and should certainly not be based on sense-data. How can one repair a shattered central belief? I think the answer lies with psychology. One must let go of pride, realize how wrong and mistaken one was, and re-evaluate one’s world from a blank slate. Everyone falls sometime, but its how fast you get up that matters.