My passage through Ctesiphon in 251 AD as documented on Nov 21, 2024
Laughter Epidemic Sweeps Parthian Empire as Humor Becomes Healing Art
Today in Ctesiphon, amid the architectural grandeur and the steady hum of a bustling city, I stumbled upon an unforeseen twist in the familiar world of ancient medicine. In this parallel timeline, the Parthian Empire thrives under the curious influence of laughter as the ultimate cure. It appears that some ancient prankster proposed the idea that humor could be ground into a tangible remedy—an elixir of good humor, if you will. It's as if physicians have exchanged the tools of their trade for comedic timing and comedic relief, all in the name of health.
At first, Parthian scholars had dismissed this idea as comedy itself, but much like certain fashionable attire, it somehow became the norm. I found myself in the city's apothecary, staring in disbelief at shelves lined with bottles that boast labels such as "Chortle Essence" and "Riotous Guffaw." Imagine my surprise when I discovered that healing melancholia here involves a troupe of entertainers reciting satirical haikus while attempting complex balances on a single reed. I stood there, entertained, yet perplexed—wondering about the power of humor in this peculiar world.
The impact of this grand experiment doesn't end at medicine. Here, humor is as integral to life's markers as solemn rites of passage. It's woven into births, where even newborns are greeted with a chorus of chuckles rather than cries. And at funerals, bards recite tales of joy and jest, torturing the deceased's sobriety with smiles of remembrance. It seems, in this world, jest has become a way to explore the web of life's joys and sorrows with a lighter touch.
The Empire's distinct reputation—known for its fierce warriors and philosophical thinkers—now finds itself deeply steeped in irony and wit. Entire legions march but to the rhythm of bawdy jokes, converting levity into cohesive defiance. The political arena is a stage for jesters, where policy discussions devolve into a battle of wits, layered with irony and satire. It is quite a sight to watch politicians trade barbs as if they were arrows in the senate clamors.
"A giggle a day keeps the arrow wounds away,"
Yet, the absurdity of treating laughter as a universal cure reveals itself in more visceral ways. Traditional surgical practices like amputation occur more often as an opportunity for comedic commentary rather than therapeutic need. Surgeons quip, "A giggle a day keeps the arrow wounds away," and even serious procedures leave one wondering if humor might actually possess some genuine efficacy.
I can't help but wonder how this peculiar practice would change the course of any historical narrative. Would famines have fostered titters rather than terror? Would laughter have orchestrated a different tune amid history's symphonies of suffering? Perhaps in my original timeline, this infusion of humor would offer the kind of solace philosophers so often seek—a gentle reminder that life, in all its forms, accompanies a scale of joy that should be heard.
As I take another look at Ctesiphon’s majestic bliss, I marvel at the intuitive creativity of simple humanity figuring—through laughter—a way to address life's incessant challenges. Even here, where medicine so scandalously diverges from the somber practices I know, humankind finds humor.
I stroll along Ctesiphon's luminous streets, comforted by the notion that humor might serve as a universal balm for our existence. Yet, for now, I still must withstand the awkward rigidity of this era's polite bow—laughably difficult to execute by someone from the future, and painful on the lower back. Time travel is such a curious affair; it's all fun and games until one must remember how gestures have changed through the ages. Ah, the simple joys.