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.

The Busy Week, or Inevitability: A Brief Poetical Tragedy

On the first day, I woke up, realized that all ideas of time are merely an illusion created by the brain in an attempt to make sense of an unexplainable, chaotic existence, and went back to sleep.

On the second day, I woke up, realized that there is virtually no likelihood that any of my thoughts or observations have any relation to reality, and went back to sleep.

On the third day, I woke up, realized that love is nothing more than a meaningless series of chemical reactions, and went back to sleep.

On the fourth day, I woke up, realized that there is no link between cause and effect, and went back to sleep.

On the fifth day, I woke up, realized that my existence is entirely irrelevant, and went back to sleep. 

On the sixth day, I woke up, realized that meaning is meaningless, and went back to sleep.

On the seventh day, I rested.

~

Postscript: This note was discovered next to the body of Eve Adams, who was found lying in her bed on September 17th, 2012, three days before her twenty-second birthday.

Fraction

Proposition 1: I am going to die in a fraction of a second. The bullet currently flying through the air at approximately 1500 feet per second directly toward my face will almost certainly guarantee that. And I don't want them to keep me on life support if a few bits of grey matter somehow don't explode out of the back of my head. I don't want to be a vegetable. I would rather die. In fact, based on the set of circumstances that got me here in the first place, a very persuasive argument could probably be made that I want to die.

Proposition 2: The gun from which the bullet was ejected is performing its proper function. This one is a no-brainer (excuse the pun). The function of a gun is to fire bullets, and this one seems to be performing very much up to speed. The bullet is not the result of some malfunction on the part of the gun; it is only a good little device (can I call a device good? Never mind, doesn't matter now) doing what it was told by its master. Which leads me to the next step.

Proposition 3: The owner of the gun wants to kill me. This would seem obvious not only from his actions (firing the gun at me) but from the chilling look of murderous rage that is wildly contorting his face. This begs a question: why? Why does this stranger, who I have never met before, want to fire a gun at my face? I suppose I can't blame him, really; the knife I stuck between his ribs is probably sufficient to create a causal connection, or at least some major blood loss.

Proposition 4: The knife is fairly large, a 4-inch steak knife taken from a drawer in my kitchen. Needless to say, I took it. Apparently not as sharp as I thought, though... who knew it took so much effort to stick a knife in someone? That's what gave him time to pull the Glock (it's a Glock, right? I think so... that's what it is in all the movies, at least). But how am I supposed to know it doesn't just slide in? Well, I got it in eventually. 

Proposition 5: And who am I? Why did I do it? These are the big, important questions, aren't they? And yet... I'm pretty foggy on both of these things, especially the last one. Because I didn't do it for any particular reason. Unlike the seemingly logical progression of this narrative, the preceding events lacked any semblance of causation. A series of unconnected events resulted in a series of connected ones, and that's the best explanation I can give. I can give a slightly better answer to the question of who I am, though: my name is-

Conclusion: *drops of blood speckle the page*

Reminisce

I miss the days when we were young,
Love flowed like honey on our tongues,
Things were simple, life was free,
Hours as long as we wanted them to be.

I miss the good times and the bad,
The lovely years we never had,
Eternal springtimes decked with flowers,
Peace to while away the hours.

I miss the days of faerie-land,
You smiled as I took your hand,
Love kept us warm through bitter cold,
We clung to dreams of growing old.

I miss the endless whispered talks,
Summer days and garden walks,
Flowers bloomed as we strolled past,
I prayed to God these times would last.

I miss even our tragic fall,
Evening sweetness mixed with gall,
Falling leaves and autumn light,
Empty day and lonely night.

I miss above all you, my dear,
Your presence turning grey skies clear,
But love can end and dreams can die,
And so they did with you and I.

The Story Cycle: The Beginning

This is the prologue of sorts for a new (as yet untitled, except that this part is called "The Beginning") thing that I'm writing... I can't call it fiction or non-fiction particularly. It's both and neither. But all that can be said at the moment is that I'm extremely excited about it, and I hope this isn't a waste of anyone's extremely limited time. After all, the world spins so quickly...

~~~

Prologue: The Beginning


If I were you and you were me,
How long would it take to see?
Hold me near and listen well,
For I have many truths to tell.

~

Are you paying attention? Do you know what's doing on? The world is small, but there are so many people on it. They move in circles, repeating the same motions day after day, age after age. Time flows on, empires rise and fall. Nothing really changes, but nothing stays the same. Everything gets older.

Except for me.

I do not grow old, fall, or die. My perspective on the world is an eternal one, and I do not change my mind. The world flies by in a supersonic, motionless blur, and I see all of it at a glance. I sit in one place and see the turning of the spheres, the clockwork repetitions of nature and man, the stories that tell themselves over and over. And so I tell them as well.

A young man meets a young woman and falls in love. A son murders his brother and is forever haunted by the ghosts of his own conscience. The philosopher finally and wholly understands the universe, only to be forgotten in his own time and buried under the sands of the years. An old woman cries out in revolt against the death that she knows will inevitably come to claim her. A new religion rises out of some unknown corner of the world, explodes like a firework illuminating the universe, then fades just as quickly into obscurity. People live and people die.

People live and die not for what they believe, but for what they feel. They love one another and hate one another, and that is why they care so much about how and when they live and die. All of their stories, all of their love and hate, flow together, echoing and repeating but never ending. The story goes on forever, and only I can see it being told.

And if you will pay attention, I will share the story with you.

Poem: Midas Morning

Morning! A kinetic stroke of majesty, 

The light consumes the night, 

A lightning flash of crimson 

Washes the muddy sky clean. 

Let there be light! Dawn at last,

Rays break over a cold dark land,

Beams of sheer gold baptize by fire,

For a moment, the world becomes what it is.

The darkness lifted, the truth is plain,

That the world is a splendid palace, 

We are Adam and Eve, kings and queens,

Ruling over a beautiful and priceless empire.

Dust and dirt turn to shining gold,

Emerald blades of grass stand eternal attention,

Leaves, fruits and flowers refract light

Bright as gemstones suspended in time.

And man, the capstone of creation

Stands crowned with the image of God

The lowest bowed head raised in dignity

Robed as a statue of gold in the light of the Sun.

Glory reigns for only a moment, soon gone

Shadows veil the truth once again

Clouds diffuse splendor, the secret still holds,

Fallen earth returns to groaning and weeping.

~

One day soon the Light will shine on without end

Creation's restoration all the broken world mend.

All will be right at last, the meek will become the bold,

An eternal Midas morning will turn the weary earth to gold.

On Feeling Alive

It was one of those days when everything was heightened; physically, mentally, and emotionally, everything he encountered felt more real to him than normal. The chill in the cool morning air made him shiver as he walked across campus, the verbal sparring and exchange of ideas in his classes thrilled him, and the empathy he felt for the oppressed, lonely, and loveless during breakfast discussion lingered indefinitely in his heart. In short, he felt alive. It was invigorating and exhausting at the same time, but primarily it made him restless: he felt an intense desire to live, to do something with himself, to genuinely experience the world's magic, beauty, and mystery. The mundane sameness of his life's experiences was shockingly visible to him, and he yearned for something more, something that would carry the narrative of his life to new heights, something that would allow him the opportunity for genuine self-expression and genuine connection to the people around him. The feeling would in all likelihood be fleeting, but just for now, it consumed him.