This world, that is to say, Earth, operates on a basis similar to the contemplations of ancient Chinese philosophers, in which Yin and Yang, light and darkness, are present in the same plane of existence as those who do not possess the ability to see such forces. I process everything through such forces invisible to a novice’s eyes, their puny forms not able to match the 6–7 electrical charges coursing through my veins.
Like a computer, I can process complex information through numbers, unlike any human. But while a simple machine can only see the world in the context of ones and zeroes, I can view all aspects of this prosaic Earth through sixes and sevens. The numbers six and seven govern the laws of the universe. It is almost like a sixth or seventh sense—though those without the greatness that was bestowed upon us call us fools, jealous of the power that increases our potential sixty-sevenfold.
I still remember how I ascertained my power, riding my electric scooter down to the Labubu store. Some idiot nearly ran into me, and I was unable to swerve, driving myself into a tree, six or seven branches piercing my body. Suddenly, six to seven stars appeared, forming a staircase to the heavens before my guardian angel arrived, the six-seven kid, now in his true form, blessing me with his appearance. This was the second most transformative experience of my life- the first when I pulled a rare Labubu. My saviour healed me of my sixty-seven wounds and imbued me with his infinite knowledge of the cosmos.
No one recognizes my power. My peers, too imbecilic, too indulged in their own silly and mundane lives to understand that I am their king, that they should bow down and grovel at my feet six or seven times an hour lest I become impatient.
Alas, it seems as though my power is, I will concede, fading. The world has forgotten about the numbers that have kept me alive, invigorating me in the hopes that I alone would save this truly unremarkable Earth, but I have failed. When a teacher counts papers, people no longer snicker before whispering devilishly the words “six-seven”. When a coach now tells their athletes to run six to seven laps around the track, no one bats an eye; some even groan as they gallop across the utterly massive football field.
I have no purpose anymore, my life spent chasing the unification of the world, only for the light that I alone have witnessed to crumple as my heart shatters as the only citizen in a kingdom of my creation. It is in moments like these that I realize such a power as great as mine, such a genius as sophisticated as I have, means nothing if I have not a soul to allow into my realm of sixes and sevens. I feel as though I have become a Beethoven, a wunderkind beyond comprehension, yet no one could ever understand me. I am alone in my understanding of six and seven, and my voice, silenced beyond comprehension, all but echoes back to me six or seven times, as society is still unable to accept my truths. I am Copernicus, I am Galileo, and my voice has been silenced, my trend has fallen out of fashion, and I am defeated. With my magnum opus now written, I can move on as everyone forgets the numbers that took them by storm. I lament, but alas, nothing can be one. I suppose, however, that is neither here nor there; that is neither six nor seven.