Chapter 23: A successful life.

“Is that really your goal?”

“I'd say so. At least, it was the one I chose.” —I replied.

“Is it worth the risks involved?”

“I'm not sure what do you mean by that. Risks? Well, I can't see many. It's all about sacrifices... I guess I risk losing all I have spent and, still, don't succeed.”

“Stop worrying.” —the simple output of the system.

I wanted to say that I had a decent decade. The last two years had made it decent. Since I left Rustown, I had managed to go from a Masters in Computer Enginnering to a PhD in Computational Statistics. By the last quarter of the decade, it became easy to forget the loneliness from before. I started relating to people. Awkwardly, after a lifetime of isolation. Maybe there wasn't much depth to the friendships here and there, but superficial interactions that become reiterative can be more fulfilling than expected. Some even offered a weak sense of belonging.

Heck, even small talk has its perks —if one can stand it and isn't obsessed with maximizing communication throughput between humans.

Yet the must fulfilling part of the whole decade, what made it decent, was still the joy of learning —expanding fields of knowledge that carried the perfect balance between stiff man-made models of reality and those empirical epiphanies that had always boosted my fascination.

For the same reason that I haven't named the Universities I attended, I wouldn't name what academic institutions I worked for. Those are names I'd like not to remember.

The people, though, is harder not to name. Alain was there. We were great academic associates: having been friends, having careers that had evolved in parallel, it was very convenient to have him close.

He was very polite. Diplomatic. His interest in the field was genuine. He was charming and outgoing.

Somehow, he was a great shield. Meaning, I would soar at his side, conveniently getting advantage of his social skills. And it didn't come at a price: he wasn't leeching on whatever amount of genius I had failed to quantify in myself, if any.

He just liked building things that worked. And so did I.

Yet I was still in the negative. At the turn of the decent decade, my vision of those academic institutions my career depended on had turned for the worse. In my vigil, it was difficult not to see them as toxic. Hyper-competitive environments crowded with desperate people that would learn to sacrifice all morals to reach the top. Or whatever they consider the top: whether it's becoming an illustration of unscrupulous academic careerism, or gathering a thousand disciples who would help building a false idol of reputation and prestige.

Maybe academia in general is like that. I don't know. Probably not. But as my accusations may deepen, I won't risk pointing fingers. Take all this as pure fiction. On a second though... I may have nothing to lose. It's fine, I'm over it. I'm over everything now. I'm suspended in the skies, warm and peaceful —the cabin shielding me from cold, wind and noise.

I can't. I still fear what is outside the cabin. I heard them talking, mouths blabbering, trying to imitate my voice.

Anyway, anyone with certain interest and attention to detail will be able to pinpoint what are the institutions that I'm talking about.