A scattered story.
This story isn’t told from my perspective, but rather the perspective of a character I want to dive deeper into. I’m not sure what he looks like or acts like, but I know he views the world in a certain way. This is the first try at trying to understand him and his world.
Just as the world before me fell, and the world after collapsed, my world became erased in a matter of instantaneous luck. The fire of a thousand years before fluttered among the stars, befitting the simplicity in science not seen since the stone age. The stars fell. The moon shattered across my night sky filling my eyes with a glimmer of light and just as quickly, an essence of darkness.
As the stars fell I saw a moment of peace among the world. Our dreams became one. Our desires none.
The lampost outside my window stopped shimmering for the first time in a generation. the world stood still in that moment, and my world imploded in an instant.
The stars that fell echoed a time before me in which my ancestors saw them as dying angles. The stars provided hope and light in an ever dark night sky. The night spared no cover of fear or life for the world was only spared by the dreams of another. Another life; another world.
A dream was an escape, not just from the world they lived in, but from the death night brought.
The fire that fluttered showed me how our would unfold. Perhaps there would be light, but the light would be burning. Forever unceasing in eternal hell. Or perhaps the fire would shine forever, illuminating our future enveloped by darkness, yet held by light.
I'm scared of the moment in time when my world is shown the cliff. The time I have is no longer the time I want and the time I want is no longer fair. The simplicity that my world used to be is not a place so simple anymore. The time I fetched my thoughts in the back room of my apartment last night is so distant from the moment I spare right now. Its as distant as the space between eons of time. The moment has passed by and the seconds have ticked on beating like the heart of a man about to die. Slowly and so off beat you can count the breaths and the pauses each minute on a finger. Time is what we thought we had and then it disappeared. Time is the space we lost long ago and regained so recently I still hear stories of it. Time had disappeared and been brought back to life as the stories of Lazarus foretold. It was lost, and then found, and then lost again.
It seems the story I've told to this point borders the infinitesimal details that no one cares about, and the mantle centerpiece everyone is thinking about. It's a story I've wanted to tell and haven't found the words. And yet, now, as I've found the words to tell a story the story seems to take too long. The story is too broad to narrow into a short story, and yet my writing skills can't write long enough yet. The story itself isn't boring, it's magical. It's dangerous. It takes you to the ends of earth and back to the beginning. It allows time to stand still and yet fly by as quick as you utter the word "you". But this description bears no assurance of power in how this story will turn out. So it's probably best to start over. Start at the beginning of my words. To bring about a new story borne from the last that causes us to examine the very fiber of the language we speak. It's etched upon the thoughts already, so now it's time to speak and read the thoughts of a past story so far away it seems minuscule in meaning, but just as tilted in power as a man becomes corrupted.
Just as the world fell before me. The time of a thousand years came to a screeching halt as the world burned. The story is best told from the perspective of a man named Zeke. [ How should this go?]
The only way a story can understand its power is if you understand what happens after. After all the pain and suffering that your story might cause you examine the world that grew up. It began to move at the pace of light. Innovation flooded our world in a manner we had not seen before. People were enlightened. And not in the way John Locke would be considered. No. People were brought to another plane of existence. Where you could see the intersection of time and space and matter. The end of the universe extending past the space we thought we understood. We began to see the divergence of thought that my world first expected. People were either enlightened or they suffered. You can't understand how to survive in a world full of creative majesty when you don't understand why your plants won't grow in the dark. When your thoughts are being occupied by matters of the self and lusting after false identity you lose the way people should interact and how people do interact. Loss becomes normal to you. Fear becomes happiness. Without fear the world burned around you. But with fear your world can be livable. But on the other hand, a world being livable does not mean it is fruitful. It doesn't mean you understand your place in it. It just means you can survive. But would you rather survive or thrive? Would your world be better in ruins that you live under, or castles you built?
My world is scared. We read of stories of a fire so astronomical it created a chasm between time and space and reality. It forced the beings of another world to be separated form us in a way we don't fully understand. The world I longed for would not come in my lifetime, but rather in another's lifetime so distant from my own I can't even fathom. People think in my world. They dream and figure problems out. But there are always problems to solve and not enough people willing to solve them. The story of a world being split into a chasm of darkness is a story most people don't believe. But then again, what better way is there to make someone afraid of the darkness than to make them believe the darkness isn't even there. My world screams for a time in history where we could exist in our own minds. Where the thoughts of another generation didn't infect our very being and our essence of life. But, that's just my world.
Thought - This is the first idea of a story. A man telling a version of the universes life through his perspective. Stories of a thousand millennia ago in which the world became split form the very fiber of being it had so long existed within. Time and space existed and then became split. And then again in his world. But, as is all things in life it comes back around. And then he tells the story of the future. Himself existing outside time and space so that his perspective is not shaped by something you think you know. But rather, the lens through which he can view a world still split by darkness, but being brought together by creativity and thoughtfulness. Just an idea I guess.
-Titus Brown
