Broken

This narrative is broken. Behind a carefully constructed facade of seemingly ordered words, only chaos reigns. Just as a life, a seemingly unified unit of animate existence, is in fact a constant struggle between constituent pieces, a roiling conflict that seems to have no singularity in itself, so also this narrative is filled with internal conflict, failed expectations, colliding inconsistencies.

I want to tell a story about a man and a woman, but I cannot. I want to relate with clarity and truth the ways in which they lived their lives, caught within life's cyclical routines, never escaping, never changing, never accepting the touch of another, never looking outward to see the face of the Other. I want to talk about a certain day, a day in which the previously divergent paths of their lives became connected, a day in which the endless cycle seemed to

stop.

Stop writing. Stop this nonsense. Stop this misguided attempt to tell events as they are. The narrative will not support any attempt to tell the truth. Symbols on a page cannot tell the truth. Words refer to words refer to words refer to words refer to words refer to words refer to

Words exchanged on a sunny day. Secret smiles, shaded symbols. A kindness shared by two blossoms, two rose blossoms rose together. A second meeting, not by chance. Meals shared, meaning shared. Time passes and the narrative continues. Two cycles merge. A bicycle trip, a world common to both, days, weeks, months. Life and love abound.

A bound manuscript, bound with bonds, bound with chains, bounded by cut corners and missing pages. A shadow crosses the sun, the page, the world, the life. Meanings diverge, multiply, deconstruct, crumble. A misunderstanding, a fight. Battles, losing focus, out of focus, out of sight, binocular breaking, one circle becomes two, one cycle becomes two, a unicycle trip. Time apart, time parts, parting time.

And so the narrative remains unfinished, unfinishing, unfinalized, unfinalizable. The circle closes but the ends miss each other. He misses her and she misses him. Cycling again, but the narrative remains unfinished. The story goes on and on, up and up, story upon storey, Tower of Babel, endless babble, babbling brook, broke, break,

broken.

The Story Cycle, Part I: Origin

So, a few weeks ago I posted the prologue to a new, longer piece I've been working on for a while. It's been stalled for a while, but I thought I would go ahead and post the next section. Before reading this, MAKE SURE to read this prologue.

Finished with the prologue? Enjoy Part I.

~

Part I: Origin

All stories have a beginning, an origin. All people are born. Darkness gives way to light as new life enters the world, and so begins a single story. That story, following on the infinite, immortal path of countless others, will make its own permanent mark on the greater Story of existence, which contains and combines all the rest.

Even I have a story. It is not like yours, as I am not like you. My story is already written, and it will not be altered by time, chance, or decay. Your story is fragile; it has a beginning and it will have an end. My story will remain the same even after I no longer exist to tell it; it is a fixed point, an unmoving center in the flow of the eternal.

Your story is different. You inhabit your story; you are the protagonist of your own existence. Your story begins, an explosion of life out of non-life. Choices determine the flow, both your own choices and those of the people around you. Their stories move into and out of your own, enriching it and being enriched by it in turn. Your story contains both comedy and tragedy, truth and lies, heroes and villains. You make it, but you are also made by it.

Your story begins in helplessness; you are unable to define your plot in even the most infinitesimal details. As you inherit full ownership of your status as a protagonist, you gain more and more control and understanding of how to alter your story, how to change it in ways that are both subtle and bold. But you will never gain complete control. The Story is something outside of yourself. You are free to make choices, but the choices are defined by the ultimate flow of the Story.

You cannot predict your story. It flows on despite your best efforts to slow or stop it. You can revisit the best moments by means of memory, but you cannot go back. Your story echoes itself in a million ways, but it is not recursive. Your story is short. You have precious little time to change your story, to achieve the plot you seek to achieve. You cannot define your story, but you can alter it; you can direct it toward your dreams and desires. And so you should.