The Pen
A very long time ago - so very long ago that it is not even remembered now, mostly because it was a time before memory, and before reflections and also before names came to be - in that time, there was a pen. And the pen wrote things. It wrote things, but not as I write them, because I write them perfectly. This pen wrote things imperfectly - do you know what that is, child?
Neither do I, of course. But it did it - and that is all it did - it wrote things imperfectly. It wrote in pages, but the pages were creased and ugly. It wrote in paragraphs, but the paragraphs were misshapen. It wrote in sentences, but the sentences were misaligned - and the words - well, the words were all misspelled. And the pen kept writing imperfectly for a very long time, and then one day it stopped writing, and it went up in to the sky like everything else which finishes.
And the people looked for it, but they could not find it and so they were sad, because they knew it was gone from them. And for a very long time afterwards - such a long time, in fact, that it is still that time, even today - nobody wrote anything. Oh, they tried - they tried again and again. They tried so hard that eventually their hands hurt - so they developed tools to help them write, typewriters and computers. But even these tools could not help them to write as the pen did, for they wrote perfectly, not like the pen. And this is how things are still, even today.
Someday, though, it will rain. But this rain will not be normal rain, because normal rain washes things clean. No, this rain will not wash things clean - this rain will be ink rain. And this ink rain will cover the lands and the seas and the cities and the people and all of the animals and everything else with muddy blackness. And in the mud, everything will be indistinguishable and everyone will see that it is the end of things. Everything will be so covered in the ink, that the streets will be awash in it - buildings and towns will be unrecognizable - and people and animals will not even be able to see each other or where they are going - but there will be no point in going anywhere anyway. And when the sky has rained its ink down so much that everything has turned into one big, muddy sea of black - then, and only then, will we forget. I will forget, and so will you, child. We will forget everything we have ever said to each other - even the murmurs and the whispers - even the beautiful speeches and also the ugly ones, too - they will all be gone.
How do I know this, you ask? I know it because it is the way it has always been and the way it must be. Tell me: How could it be any other way?
Neither do I, of course. But it did it - and that is all it did - it wrote things imperfectly. It wrote in pages, but the pages were creased and ugly. It wrote in paragraphs, but the paragraphs were misshapen. It wrote in sentences, but the sentences were misaligned - and the words - well, the words were all misspelled. And the pen kept writing imperfectly for a very long time, and then one day it stopped writing, and it went up in to the sky like everything else which finishes.
And the people looked for it, but they could not find it and so they were sad, because they knew it was gone from them. And for a very long time afterwards - such a long time, in fact, that it is still that time, even today - nobody wrote anything. Oh, they tried - they tried again and again. They tried so hard that eventually their hands hurt - so they developed tools to help them write, typewriters and computers. But even these tools could not help them to write as the pen did, for they wrote perfectly, not like the pen. And this is how things are still, even today.
Someday, though, it will rain. But this rain will not be normal rain, because normal rain washes things clean. No, this rain will not wash things clean - this rain will be ink rain. And this ink rain will cover the lands and the seas and the cities and the people and all of the animals and everything else with muddy blackness. And in the mud, everything will be indistinguishable and everyone will see that it is the end of things. Everything will be so covered in the ink, that the streets will be awash in it - buildings and towns will be unrecognizable - and people and animals will not even be able to see each other or where they are going - but there will be no point in going anywhere anyway. And when the sky has rained its ink down so much that everything has turned into one big, muddy sea of black - then, and only then, will we forget. I will forget, and so will you, child. We will forget everything we have ever said to each other - even the murmurs and the whispers - even the beautiful speeches and also the ugly ones, too - they will all be gone.
How do I know this, you ask? I know it because it is the way it has always been and the way it must be. Tell me: How could it be any other way?
posted by Sturgeon General at 7:32 AM
4 Comments:
We are neither script nor scribe: we are scribblers.
In the beginning, was the word. And the word was with God and the word was God.
We are beyond the point of believing in tautologies.
1) That we better be royal.
2) I'm not beyond nothing.
3) The world is a tautology.
Post a Comment
<< Home