Teleiotopos

Here’s your exposition:

I was eighty-five years old and my heart went AWOL. The story is anticlimactic and the loose ends few, save for the surprise when my spirit remained (or moreover, when I realized it was there in the first place). I ascended those fabled steps, pristine and untouched by time, for what could have been minutes or years – it was all inconsequential. The summit was indescribable, so I’ll suffice to describe its shape, color, and texture: infinite, blue, and smooth. I cannot call the air pure, for I had no breath upon which to judge, and I cannot call it perfection, for there were people. There was everyone, in fact, in all corners and spaces, people of every path and philosophy. Despite my recent arrival, I was already inducted into this society of the dead, where it appeared membership required merely being just that.

As I inspected the unfamiliar territory, I came to understand how it worked. This place was, in effect, a social. Although there was no time to pass, people passed it nonetheless by talking with one another, their conversations ranging from location and condition of death to theories on quantum mechanics. At first I was perplexed at how the whole of humanity could congregate on equal ground, for I am certain I saw a man, strongly in resemblance to Jesus of Nazareth, speaking to one Judas Iscariot. Soon I came to discover that hierarchy had no place in this afterlife, with every person—recognizable or not—within the confines of each other. I began to toy with this idea of confrontation, conjuring up a presence I once thought impossible of being my equal. Interestingly, he not only spoke my language, but he spoke mildly and sensibly, encouraging a similar response from me. Whereas I had wanted to berate, even kill (if such a thing were possible) him upon our meeting, my malevolence turned to apathy, my apathy to understanding. We shared views and explained our faults, which in turn produced a mutual acceptance of mortality’s effect on our lives.

It was not long before I was conjured by a man, still garbed in his rich earthly attire, his long face and pointed nose seeming especially familiar. We shook hands and introduced ourselves by our full names and occupations, so as not to be confused with someone of an unsurprisingly similar identity. He, Sir Thomas More the scholar and statesman, had an infinitely longer agenda than I. Seeing me as an admirer of his work, he took the opportunity to explain himself at length – his intentions, his speculations, his errors, and his writing, naturally. I sat down, not out of fatigue but of deference to his speech, listening intently to the man whose ideas I’d mused often in my life. As expected, our current condition had encouraged (if not forced) change in More’s philosophy. Like many of our compatriots, he questioned what brought him such conceit in life that had assured him of reward in the afterlife. I conceded that I had not believed in the soul at all, and so I could not comment on the subject, being even more mistaken than he. Nevertheless, many of his assertions remained consistent to my studies, especially those in line with the prospect of a Utopia.

To my surprise, More was able to recite his texts at ease, verbatim. It came about that I too could recite his texts and any text I cared to remember, which encouraged a sinuous and stimulating conversation. When it appeared that More had finished his argument, one that I guessed had been rehearsed ad nauseum, I stood up.

“Yes,” I said in utter sincerity, “That is all very good.”

But, I continued, you cannot expect these people to work as efficiently as you would have them work. There are still those with power, and we both know there cannot be power in a powerless society. Also, I added, you use items of value to exemplify a lack thereof. And people are forced – Oh, how they are forced! What kind of free will have we here? There is much work to be done!

“These ideas are grand, sir,” I said, once again shaking his hand, “But let me tell you what I think.”