Story

The world is a set of icy fingers

Wrapped around a fragmented page

On which are written broken words

In a language I can’t understand

Telling a story with no ending

At least, not one that is written yet.

I am trying to write an ending

But I don’t know what words to use

And the ink is drying on the quill

With only a little while left

For me to learn the language

Much less to tell a good story.

But just when I lose all hope

I think, maybe, I understand

Just a few little words, like

“grace”, “laughter”, “patience”

And maybe that’s enough

To carry on just for now.

Not an ending but a beginning

A story still being told.

And maybe I’m not the only one

Who gets to tell it.

Maybe I’ll leave the next part

For you and for you and for You.

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.

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.