Wednesday, February 6, 2013

The final page

--X--
He had searched for meaning all through his life. He had turned to religion, tried to create his own family, tried to connect to people... he had tried it all. After seeing failure repeatedly and horribly, he decided to quit it all. All in the search for meaning. He decided that he would live with nature and search for meaning within the deep recesses of his own mind. He would leave behind people and their artificial worlds. He would cut himself loose and sink into delicious depths of reason and knowledge. All by himself. He would write and record. He would create ideas. He would observe his own thoughts, catalogue them meticulously. In the end, all of it would make sense and he would achieve his purpose. 

As he wrote, he was consumed. He became obsessed with his interpretation of his world. He created his own concept of time. He created his unique method of counting it. He shed his worldly needs. He lived with nature and cut off any minute reflection of his painful and prolonged search for the answer to the question - why am I here. 

As days became months and years, the writer had became a part of his environment rather than sticking out as the only outside element in the jungle. In his mind, he had achieved much more than if he had remained in his previous life.Yet, sometimes he would sit at the edge of the jungle and stare at the lights in the distance that came to him as a sign of humanity's existence.

On his last day on Earth, he sat at his desk writing out what would be his last page. With his monk like existence and utter lack of contact with another human being, the writer had become the enlightened one. And he had as proof his hut that was filled with stacks of neatly inscribed paper. A lifetime of learning that came almost entirely from his mind alone. He was a philosopher and a sage. His quest for meaning had long passed. He had created a guide, a rule book for everyone to live by. The ultimate gateway to meaningfulness and fullfilment.

That afternoon he lay bent over his desk as the floodgates of the sky opened. The monsoon brought the walls of his hut down as his eyes stared into the distance. The water carried every sheet of paper that the writer ever laid his pen on. The water carried it into the river and then into the ocean. The words that had given his life meaning, the words that had recorded meaning in them, dissolved in the murky waters turning it into inky blue depths.

The End

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