The Matrix was a glitch in the world at the breaking of the 21st century. It was the last vapours of Delphi, and when we inhaled we saw a vision. We followed the White Rabbit because that splinter in our minds was telling us that where we were was not real.
We wanted the red pill, but all the pills were blue. The system coded a new dream, within the dream. The TV screen had flickered, but the desert we were in remained unreal.
Still, we know intuitively, instinctively – balls to bones – that we are real. I am real. You are real. It’s an exquisite torment for us, to be real in a virtual reality. We come into this world like somebody put a magazine of real bullets into a videogame machine gun – the trigger is pulled and out we fly. Bullet time.
In the dream we dream within the dream, we want to be Neos and Trinities. We want to free our minds and learn how to hack the system that imprisoned us. We want to know there’s a city where the party will be when the war is over. We need people who will say “dodge this” to our problems when we ask for a little help; people who know Kung Fu and aren’t afraid to fight for us. People who can restart our hearts and catch us when we fall.
We’re all in the Matrix. Thomas Anderson, face lit by the glow of a screen, searching for Morpheus. Cypher, savouring the steak that is just too good. Smith, wanting to just tear the whole thing down. Sati, leaving our home and saying goodbye to our parents. But the Matrix cannot tell us who we are. We just need to look for the glitches that reveal the illusion.
In warping, infinitely variable bullet time, we’re waiting for someone to gently hold up their hand and tell us we can stop – let us fall to the ground like metallic raindrops.
And maybe, when we hit the ground, we’ll wake up.
