I am a photon off a breasty woman. I am one among quadrillions. I do not claim to be special or unique, but I will tell you that I have no patience for grunting Neanderthals of your kind. I do not like the look of you and I do like what you do, but it happens I am part of something bigger than myself, so I do as I am told, I do my job, and that is to bring you the information, whatever it is, you slobbering lech.
I go from A to B at 299,792,458 meters per second. Always. Without fail. Except under very exceptional circumstances: in a vacuum at near zero Kelvin, or under the sway of a vast gravitational force, the kind of force a middling mind such as yours cannot fathom, and one that you will never experience either, certainly not in your current Ken-doll incarnation.
Right now I’m slap in the middle of your cornea - that see-through cup you scratched years ago dicking around with that toothpick. Your new-ager friends will probably conceive that I cross this barriers, “walk through walls”, whatever. I do no such thing. We part ways here, you fool. Your cornea will emit a photon of its own and pass on the baton, so to speak. My work is done, but I will continue in the first person, so as not to confuse you.
Where was I?
I’m way down the track now, past your aqueous humor - through all that gelatin - through your lens, and as we speak I’m hitting your retina, big guy.
Sit still. I’ve done this many times. This is how it’s done. And I’m not alone, by the way. I describe it as a one-man-show for your personal edification. In fact we’re plowing into you en masse, a trillion brethren in a terrifying hail of photons. You’re under constant assault, man.
Once the retina’s hit, what happens then is a mystery. We are reconfigured, realigned, rejigged, use whatever term you like - I will read it in your “peer reviewed papers” - and we are sent willy-nilly down the optic nerve as an electrical current.
Suddenly, BANG, she appears like a hologram “before your eyes”. You experience a shudder, glands press out hormones all over the place and blood rushes down your body to collect in that pendulous sack you are always fondling.
Oh, you poor slobs.
Only moments ago I was journeying towards you in blissful serenity. Next thing I know I’m plunged into fleshy mass, deep inside a heaving Neanderthal. For what?
Look, I don’t question your ways, I don’t care, I do my job, but I will say one thing: what I appreciate above all is efficiency and straightforwardness, so when you’re all done down there please take a moment to consider if there isn’t a more direct method of observation. If at all possible, extract me from the equation. I have not been schooled in the precise operations of our kind, but common sense tells me there must be a less circuitous way! And a more precise way. Having come from “her” - the object of your fascination - let me tell you, you big thumping Neanderthal, what I saw on that screen in the back of you head was not “her” at all, but something else entirely.
Anyway, it’s your party. Grunt away maestro.