Something for the Cellar of Iapetus' Mind

There exists at the heart of science fiction the IDEA.

The IDEA must be expressed in bold letters -- for the IDEA is that  big something, that enormous root filled with flavor and sustenance and bulk and fiber that nourishes the characters through the story.

But they forget the gas.

The idea that the IDEA is, at its fundament, entirely stupid. Oh, a new planet to colonize. A million earths, filled with riches that will make the value of gold, of diamonds, of property plummet so that Humanity with the capital H can pursue higher ideals of love, of trust, cooperation and truth.

Well.

I've seen it. I am the sole inhabitant if a world, such as they strive for. No government or potentate or corporation put me here. I put myself here using tools as common as sticks and blenders.

Yet no one joins me.

I am a man of modest means and only average intelligence. There are many more capable. More worthy. Yet here I am. And I do not seek riches or fame or the things the IDEA tells me to leave behind. But I do not find truth. Or cooperation. Or love or trust. I find vast emptiness that I long for yet a vast emptiness that will kill me or worse, extend the distance from my archipelago of thought to the teeming shores. And the only freedom I find comes from the oblivion of sleep, which I could have far more comfortably without the IDEA hoping to use me as a tool for the hope of fools.