Everyone throughout the village stared at me. They all saw me, they all felt what was said. My path was unimpeded. No one stopped me, no one said anything. I simply burned the blood in my veins as I pumped my legs in fear that the Deathlord would soon change his mind. But, I knew he would not. His word was law.

The gate was wide open for me. The gatekeeper said nothing. The giant stood as tall as the gate itself. A hybrid, I could only assume. This is something that does not concern me. I will meet no one, humans or hybrids. For no one lies outside the confines of the village, only unending and unrelenting desert.

I wandered for hours. The sun came up then, bright and enormous over the horizon. The sand was blue with the light coming down from the sky. The heat bore down on me, searing my skin. The cloak I’d worn most of my life was drenched in sweat and fear. Outside of everything I’d known my entire life, I had nowhere to go. The only thing I could do was move, toward what I had no idea.

The village disappeared beyond the vanishing point of the land. It became a distant memory to me, a long forgotten notion of what I had left behind. I knew I’d never see it again.

I was not accustomed to doing things myself. Everything had been given to me. The time of labor had long passed when the Deathlord finally took over this world. Because our lives depended on the thrill of our existence, there was no need to accomplish anything with it.

The unfair dominion of the Overseer and his Magistrates had long passed. The Deathlord was shunned in those days. He was seen as the evil one. We all looked down on him and thought he was the true enemy, even past the supposed villainy of the hybrids. The Deathlord was the ultimate evil to be feared. It wasn’t until the Heralds of Death finally came that we learned the truth.

The Deathlord was nothing to fear, the Overseer vilified him as the enemy to keep everyone focused on a goal. Then, we would see his established society as the dominant good to be maintained. The Deathlord came to free us from all that, once we understood he was what we truly sought.

This was what we were told. I remember the news spreading from the Heralds in the streets. I remember how I felt. The Heralds told all of us what the Overseer did, how everything we’d known was supposedly a lie. I wanted to believe it, but I did not. Everyone else did.

The desert had no markers, no landmarks. It made it easier that there was nowhere to go. The wind simply led me where it wished. The sand was thrown about in a magnificent wall of blue dust, clouding my vision in all directions. The last thing I could see was the distant blue sun, and somewhere beyond I could feel the leering tower of the Deathlord watching.

The sandstorm felt like it would not end. It was in my bones, cutting my skin and flaying my insides. Most of my skin had long been exposed by now, to avoid the heat of the plains. I felt it in my lungs, the sand clouded my soul. I am so tired of living in this world of nonsense. This place gives me nothing, and leads me nowhere.

By the time the storm cleared, night had fallen again. Clouds obscured the sky, and I was left further out than ever before. I had never heard any of the tales of people going out beyond the villages. The hybrids knew, of course. After they joined us in our life of meaninglessness, they cared not to share any such stories.

I finally stopped. There was nowhere left to go. Looking up, I saw only a small, rocky hill. It stood like a monolith in the desert. I walked past it to see that there was nothing left. The monolith was the end of the land. It was a cliff, and beyond it was only an empty chasm. A yawning abyss shouted out, and left me with the same nothingness that the world had. It was more than darkness. The echoes of a million years of uncaring creation cried out from it.

The monolith called to me, so I turned around and went back to it. I climbed up the rock face, opening up gashes all across my body as I hit against the stones. At the top, I could see a beacon of light. It was surrounded by jagged pillars reaching out into the sky, monumental in structure. It formed a cage around the light. When I got to the entrance, I noticed the enormity of the structure. The source of the light was a figure robed in white, chained to the rock that was jutting out of the middle of the structure I had scaled.

It was a woman. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She was what I had been looking for my entire life. I was so scared to get closer. A strange hum sounded in the air, a chorus of cacophonous noises that drilled into my skull. The light filled me with a euphoria I had never dreamed of knowing. She looked up, and finally noticed my presence. The woman looked so tired. Her short, blond hair lay against the stone she leaned on. Her arms were extended, with cuffs chained to her wrists that reached up into the rafters of the prison-like rock face. The elegant gown she wore cascaded on the floor.

It was so nice to finally not feel afraid, to not be sad. I knew that life didn’t have to be filled with hurt and loneliness all the time when I finally saw this goddess.

“I am not a goddess,” she said. I was not sure if I had spoken aloud again, and did not mean to. “No,” she said again. “Your thoughts speak loud enough for me to know. It is nice to meet you, child.”

“I am no child,” I said.

“Yes, you are. When you have seen all the years that I have, all are children then.”

“I have waited so long…”

“No you have not. Because, you know not what you waited for. I am what you could never dream of, for I am your dreams.”

“I just want to understand.”

“I know you do, child. Everyone does, really. Most of them have just forgotten.”

“Then tell me. Please. Who…”

“I am the Mage, child. I am everything. I represent all that you see, all that you feel, all that you hear. I am the world’s mediator. I was, and forever will be. But, no more.” She looked up and moved her chains.

I ran to free her, but was stopped. A force lashed out, telling me to quit.

“No, child,” the Mage said. “You cannot let me out. I have been here for so long, and it is not for one such as you to free me.”

“Then tell me, I can do something, can’t I?”

“You can do nothing now, for this world is not as it once was. My teachings, my direction, my purpose is long gone. Each and every one of you rejected it.”

“No, I did no such thing.”

“Yes, you did. Yes, you are. You do not realize it, but you have pushed me away many times.”

“But I hate this world. I do not abide by what others do. I swear to you.”

“I know. But that does not mean anything. Look into your heart, child. You know good and well what you have done.”

“Or what I did not do. What none of us did.”

“The Overseer. I thought much of him. I worked hard to teach him, but he would not listen. He made your world so ordered. He pushed each of you away from each other, until you were so desperate to believe anything else that you would go to any lengths. And now, you live with your basest instincts. That is all you have.”

“I do not do that.”

“No, but you do nothing to curb it either. You simply lash out in anger, and feel pathetic because you think that the world is so unfair. You made yourself a target, instead of helping others to see. Selfishness takes many forms.”

“I… I did not mean to.”

“No one chose to listen to me. Everyone wanted to take their own way. The Deathlord, he had an easy job. He was there before any of it began. Before there was a world, before there was a Mage, there was him. The yawning chaos brought him forth, but I am the order and structure of everything. The world has always sought him again. It is always easy to travel back to ruin, to fall into the path of least resistance.”

“I am sorry.”

“I know you are, child. It is okay.”

“Then, what can I do?”

“You are doing it now. You are listening to me. That is what you must do.”

“What else, though? What can save this world?”

“The world cannot be saved unless it wants to be. You cannot make that happen any more than I can.”

“Tell me something, please! What can I do?”

“Cease your anger, child. Sometimes, there is nothing to do. Sometimes, you must learn that simply being is all there is.”

“I don’t accept that.”

“I know you don’t. And what good will that do?”

“Nothing…”

“Yes. I can tell you that one day the world will want to change. And, when it does, I will be free. The chains will break, and I will leave. The Deathlord will lose his power. The people will stop serving him, they will want freedom from their freedom. The chaos will lose. I cannot tell you what will take its place. Order had its chance. I cannot say that there will be peace.”

“When?”

“My child, you will not see it.”

“I will die?”

“Yes, all things die. But you will live a long while yet, if you choose to.”

“What choice do I have if I can do nothing?”

“Your choice is your own. The world cares not one way or the other.”

“Then I have achieved nothing.”

“You have for yourself. That should be of comfort. One man wanted things to be different, that means something. Eventually, all will want the same. You were just the harbinger. Those who watched your spectacle when you left will think of it in the days to come. The tale will be told. Either way, the conclusion will be the same.”

“Then I did do something?”

“Believe whatever you wish.”

“I must do something.”

“Why must you?”

“I love you. I see you, now. You are everything. My love, that has to mean something.”

“If you truly love me, then you will listen to me. You would have obeyed me, and believed in me long before now.”

“But there is no changing that. I need to fix something. Why can’t I fix it? Tell me what to do!”

“Make your decision for what you will choose to do with your life, child. Make it wisely, and decide to do what is best. I tell you now, that is all you can do. That is all that anyone can ever do. Know that I love you too, child, and I always will. But our time will not come again. Be patient.”

The moon descended and the morning came. The Mage disappeared, sinking into the ground as the rock engulfed her. Apparently, it would always do this when the days were over. I do not know why I know that, but I do.

I was left alone, in a prison of stone. All I did was watch the empty space where my love and future once laid, and there I sat and prayed.

In the distance, the lord of death laughed high up in his tower.

Far from here, the Mage would appear again. She would, as always, be just out of reach.

He was followed outside by the Dead that threw him. They were always around, now. It was supposed to be a blessing that they were returned to us. It turned out not to be, in the long run. But, we weren’t supposed to think that. It was hard to sit here and feel that different. I never wanted to stick out like that. So, here I was on the sidelines watching the Dead add another to their ranks as they tore apart a poor drunken man.

The crowd grew around his body. Once they were finished with him, the audience cheered. It was the entertainment for the night. It didn’t really matter what was on the stage, the buildings gave forth their turbulent ramble to see a fellow human being get mangled.

It hurt that it didn’t bother me like it usually did. Getting used to something like that darkens you, destroys you in a way. The Dead men rise again from their attack. I shouldn’t call them Dead, I know that as well. It’s been a long time since anyone actually died. For very long, anyway. Death has been turned into a bad word, now.

The stone buildings have released all their inhabitants. There is no one else to come and cheer the mayhem. This simple oasis in the desert means nothing to most who live here. It is just a place like anywhere else. We simply await the same thing we do every day.

We wait for the Deathlord to arrive.

He comes down once again from his dark tower high above the village. It is always a public spectacle, always an occurrence. The Deathlord gives our lives meaning.

He has a fantastic cloak that lingers behind him. The armor compliments the dark demeanor, as it is of resplendent opal formed in a skeletal shape around his frame. The bottom of a jaw-like helmet can be seen underneath the hood that falls over his eyes. I do not know what to make of him. I never have. But we are all supposed to love him. Everyone loves the Deathlord. I know I have surely tried.

He looks at the corpse lying in the crossroads. Raising up his staff, he chants words that turn to solid constructs. They light up the street, shocking everyone around. And when the chants are over, when the show has ceased, it rises from the dead. I’m sorry, I did not mean to say it. He rose again, fresh from his new death. No, not death. I am not supposed to say that either.

The crowd cheers that another Dead man has been born again. We are all glad for that, because to be Dead is better than to be alive. We are all looking to reach that, we all want that, after all. Being alive is a curse to be ignored until it is over. We should strive to escape from it. And the Deathlord is kind enough to supply that.

As always, they rise with a smile. He takes whatever sanctity there lies in death away from us all. We wish for our demise, but have no need to worry about what it actually does. Instead, we are free from all consequences, free from all true fear. The cheering stops now that the show is over. Everyone goes back to their other distractions, those among them who are not Dead simply await their time to be blessed.

I think they almost outnumber us at this point. I wish I was one of the Dead sometimes. Not one of the ones that still wander. I mean for real. That used to happen all the time. Wishing something like that is wicked, is wrong. There’s a lot of things that are wrong now that didn’t use to be. I wish I could keep track. I wish I knew what I was supposed to do. I wish I didn’t feel so far from everyone else.

The revelers go back into their hovels. Taverns are the only buildings worth anything anymore. The joy, the decadence, the lovemaking, that is all that permeates the air. I stay out here, and watch the Deathlord walk away. He laughs through that mask of his and it echoes down the street. He stands in the road alone, looking at me. Then, he is gone. He says nothing, he means nothing. He is just what he is, and we should praise him for it.

I remember a time when the Dead did not return. I remember when that was against the law. That sort of magic was said to be evil. I still believe that. I still want to, even though I cannot tell anyone that. But that was so long ago, a century at least. I was still quite young. So many were. Most were young enough not to bother remembering at all. I wonder if some of these people remember how it used to be, or if they simply do not wish to. It would be much easier to forget, to let it go in favor of how things are now. But the Overseer has been dead for so long. The Magistrates are gone. There is no leadership but the Deathlord.

Life is so much better now, after all. No one has a job, no one makes or builds anything. No one has any responsibility. All of our village has already been built, but now it falls apart. All of the stone buildings and temples are worn by the wind, destroyed by storms, or lay empty. Food is produced from nothing. The Deathlord provides all, we make nothing ourselves. We need only pass the time until we are Dead. And the Dead have their own lives.

I don’t fight against any of it. I can’t. I do not know why I cannot be like everyone else. I keep my internal fight a secret, trying to be glad how lucky we are now. It never works.

I go inside the tavern that the poor drunk man was thrown from. Now, he is back inside having fun with the rest of them. It is as if nothing at all happened. I wonder what it was he did, what he said. Usually the unhappy ones are targeted for conversion. When the brain is dead, there is no subversive thought any longer. Then, the celebration can continue unabated.

No one sleeps anymore. There is too much noise. Being alone with your thoughts does nothing to keep the happiness going. So long as we maintain that pursuit then there is a purpose, or rather a lack thereof. There is no goal at the end of this road that we travel on. There is just more road.

I ask for some food from the tavern keeper. There is no money to give anymore. We have long since lost the need for it. The tavern keeper is a hybrid, a satyr. He conjures up my food, like everyone does now. I could do it myself too, but I have never had the knack for magic. I still remember what it was like to be afraid of it. He thanks the Deathlord as he gives me my plate.

It is interesting that half the bar is filled up with hybrids. We used to have constant wars with them. Before the Deathlord came, all we did was fight. There was never a need to talk to a hybrid, they were the enemy. As it turns out, there was never anything to be afraid of. They’re just like us. And now, we all have the same desire. There is no more difference in opinion or thought. The barriers came down. They were desert people, whereas we always stayed in the city. Now, the city is the center of everything, and they live here just the same. They die just like the rest of us too.

The satyr barkeep provides ale with my food. It is more powerful than it used to be. One cask of it will leave you delirious for the rest of the night. I do not believe that anyone abstains from it anymore. We are required to drink it with all meals. The smell of nostrum fills the air as well, as the dead and the living alike smoke from their long, curved pipes. The room is filled with distraction and vice.

As I try to clear my head from the vapors of the atmosphere, I am approached by a Naiad. She is beautiful, her long flowing hair on her blue skin and large eyes. I can see the gills moving on her neck. I know what she wants before she speaks to me. I am not interested. I do not know her. She tells me she loves me. I do not know what that word could possibly mean. Most are simply happy to pass their nights this way. In fact, the physical acts occurring across the tavern right here in public astonish me. The Naiad soon becomes bored with me, and seeks someone else to love. I wish I could just let go and love her too.

I feel frustrated. I feel alone in a room full of people.I push my ale away, not wishing to give in to the simple solution it offers. The room has become stifling. I must get some air.

Outside, a dead man has a nostrum pipe and fills the air with vapor that hits me in the face.

“I apologize, my friend. Here, take some,” he said. Kindness is strange in this world.

“No, I am perfectly fine without it,” I said.

The strange look he gives me intensifies as I turn away his advance. He gets up and comes closer. At this range, I can see his face rotting away. One eye is gone, and I can see the partially revealed skull that reaches from the top of his mouth going all the way up to his hairline. There are only pitiful strands of hair left, devoid of any pigment, like the rest of his skin. He is pale as the moon. His pink, glowing eyes stare at me as he comes close. The Dead man towers over me, his breath is horrific.

“I am not accustomed to those that do not partake in the Deathlord’s gift,” he said. It’s easy to forget that the nostrum is a “gift” from the Deathlord. It takes the edge of our difficult existence away from us, and heals our ailments. It is supposedly a remedy for everything, even for the Dead.

“I have no need of it,” I said as I tried to create distance between us.

“There is always a need for it,” he said, keeping pace with me. Others had started to flood the streets as well. The merriment would take a break as the night continued. The two moons shone brightly in view for all those watching, making sure that I was well lit and noticeable. Everyone stopped to see what was happening, thinking there was another chance for diversion tonight.

“I know, I just… I had some already. I do not need anything else right now,” I said.

“He did not drink his ale, either,” said the satyr. Everyone can smell dissidence in the air. With nothing to conform to, a lack of conformity is the only thing to abide by. Not doing so is a sin, if that concept still existed.

I am surrounded now. The Naiad from the tavern comes to the front, around all the others that judge me. A kiss is what she greets me with. It lacks any passion. There is nothing to it, it does not assuage any of my loneliness or fear. I would like it to. It is nice, but I do not fall for the empty lies that it sells to me. It, like everything else, lacks all substance. That is why I pushed her away.

Now, the crowd becomes violent. They all come towards me. My life is growing very short now. I wouldn’t mind, if it weren’t for what comes afterward. I know that I won’t die. No, not the way that we are supposed to.

Moments like this you are supposed to pray to the Deathlord. I have never done such a thing. Prayer was never a part of our lives before. But here I am, getting down on my knees and giving faith to something as victims of a decadent society surround me. They all laugh. I would too, if I were watching myself. But I do not pray to the Deathlord. No, I pray to something I do not even know. I pray to something beyond me.

I feel it now. All the anger, hatred, fear that I have had to push down for the last hundred years of my life. I pray now for them to finish me, because I do not want to live like this anymore. I do not want to have to be so different. I want this to end, I want it to be finished. My only hope is that the Deathlord cannot raise me like he does everyone else. I want the calm and the peace of the grave.

“Give me the pipe,” I said. They all laughed as the Dead man lit the pipe and handed it to me. I took a deep breath of the vapor, and it invigorated me. Then, I picked the pipe up and bashed the dead man over the head with it. He collapsed with his skull fractured on the ground and his brains splattering on the other bystanders. He will walk again. That sort of thing matters very little to the Dead.

The crowd pulls back in shock. Everyone is so inebriated that they cannot think straight. I am still surrounded, but I wave the pipe around trying to scatter the people. I find the path of least resistance, somewhere with no Dead to restrain me. The pipe swings wildly to push back all of the half-crazed populace.

As I finally escape the encroaching mob, I am met instantly by the great shadowy figure above all. The Deathlord has arrived, sensing a time that was meant for him. The grim visage looks down on me in silence, the smile of his skull helmet speaking volumes. The moonlight reflects off him, and I see the vacant nothing of his eyes. All the work of the vapors disappears in that instance, and I am ready to give up again. I suppose he inadvertently heard my prayers. I suppose he really is the only one to pray to.

No one says a word. We all look at him. This thing that has changed our world so much. So many say that we are now equal, that true freedom reigns more than it ever did. In the time of the Overseer, our society was ruled by his class system that separated everyone and kept us in a constant state of war. Now, we are free of the bonds of that. Now, we are free of everything. But, what does that freedom mean with nothing to support it? What are we even free for?

I did not realize that I said all these things to him in my dazed state. I yelled in his face and I looked at the crowd and I screamed in triumph and defeat. I said it to all that could hear, and I blasphemed to the face of god.

The Deathlord did not move a muscle the entire time. His presence grew larger while we saw him lift his staff. I waited for destruction. Perhaps that is what I wished for in the long run. Destruction is the only gift that he could give me. Instead, he simply turned away.

“Leave,” said the Deathlord. “Come back when you understand.”

to be continued…

People argued about coal, they talked badly about the negative affects of nuclear, and wind and solar simply weren’t viable options. There were no resources that were renewable enough to work consistently for the human race, especially as they began to grow.

And this alone added to the already worsening problem. The population surplus. Too many people, too few resources, no way to keep everyone happy. It was a solution practically staring everyone in the face. As the planet topped 10 billion in population, and space ran out, the answer was clear.

People.

People were the single best resource that could be used and used over and over again. People were the thing that could always be relied upon, because there were already too many, and there could always be more. Reproduction was a fairly easy thing. After all, any idiot could do it, most of the time without even trying.

So how to decide? And how to make it work? You couldn’t tell people the truth. Usually the unwashed masses can’t handle that sort of thing, especially when it’s for their own good.

You can’t outright lie to them. A few might smarten up and realize they’re getting tricked. A middle ground had to be found.

And how to use them too? What method was best for getting the most out of their subjects? Sure, they were disposable, but the more people they worked through the harder it would be to constantly have to procure more.

Such are the difficult decisions that the powerful must carefully make.

Number 17425 cycled through all his horrible emotions for the day. He stayed hooked up to his machine and ran through all the awful likelihoods, all the scenarios he dared not dream of in hopes of preparing himself for the inevitable.

The Number remembered his life. He remembered his mom, and his dad. He remembered all his siblings, his old girlfriend. But they were gone now. Only replaced with the unforgettable memories of the worst possible moments. He ran through them all in his mind and could not get the pictures to stop.

All the mistakes he’d ever made, all the regrets he was forced to suffer through once again were here. And upon reflection, they were all the worse. One such evening remembered he saw something he said to his mom in anger. The true words are lost to time, but in his memory his speech was filled with the cruelest of insults. He sees a dismissive act toward an old girlfriend, and it becomes continual neglect and emotional turmoil. Everything is made worse. Everything is heightened. His memory is warped and cannot be relied upon, but it all feels true nonetheless. It all feels more than true. It cannot be argued with, it cannot be dismissed, it cannot be ignored. It must be acknowledged, it must be thought through, it must be considered. Every time the scenario is ran through again, it becomes worse. But every time he thinks maybe he’ll be able to figure it out. Every time he thinks he’ll find the answer that makes it all a little easier.

This is always the way the mornings go. The high levels of cortisol active once the Number awakes are used against him. The helmet encircling his head activates, and makes sure that all his worst nightmares are remembered and actualized. It is bad enough he must run through these memories, but with the helmet in full swing it is as if he is actually there going through it all again, incapable of stopping one second of it.

It is only in the afternoon when his break comes, and he is allowed a moment’s peace to pass out. This is only too short though, because it will activate again, and this time even worse. Now, it plunges into the infinite possibilities of the future, instead of being relegated to the fairly solidified nature of the past. In the future, anything can happen. Anything there can be magnified, made so much more insane and ridiculous and terrifying. He can see it all. He can feel it all.

His whole family, dying horribly and tragically. All of them seconds away from being saved. All of them outside of his grasp. They disappear and leave him alone. His girlfriend too, now hating him and leaving him, breaks his heart again and again in a million different ways because of so many of his random little mistakes he can’t even remember doing. The few friends he never had, all treating him like garbage. They spit on him and act as if he is a bane on their existence. His town, destroyed in an earthquake. The sky, falling down in a blaze of fire.

And as for himself, he could die at any moment. If he decided to stop paying attention to all that could go wrong, then he’d be done for. He could be killed in a million different ways. He could get sick, he could get hurt, he could be murdered. Maybe that alley he thought of going down would lead him to ruin. Maybe that door knob he touched had a horrible virus on it. Maybe he would trip and fall into traffic. Perhaps a plane could crash into him. Or he just wouldn’t wake up from sleep, or someone could bury him alive. All were true. All were possible. All were happening.

His helmet siphoned all it needed from him. The Number was kept suspended far up in the air, held aloft only by the helmet and the support beams stretching his arms out. Day after day he rested here. When the helmet had finished torturing him for his allotted time, he passed out in anguish. Those moments of sleep were all the pleasure he got, as they relieved him of the horrific feelings and memories he was forced to deal with every day. That was his every waking moment, these thoughts and feelings. And they were powerful.

That was why they needed him, after all. Him, and so many others throughout this power facility, in just one of its many branches throughout the world. Throughout these places, people were suspended far up and left to go through nightmarish torment in order to activate their most primal fears and instincts. A toxin was pumped continually into the helmet, activating the amygdala and ramping up the levels of cortisol in the body. All of this compounded continually, worsening until they could go no further and the person had to be allowed a rest period. Each day energy was harvested from these people that resulted from the overproducing activity of their mind. The electrical impulses fire much quicker when your body goes into fight or flight mode. Because of this, an overly anxious mind becomes a powerful battery. And they could be used day in and day out to power anything that could be dreamt of.

The Number knew none of this. He could hardly remember when or how he had gotten here. There was some vague notion in his memory of volunteering, but he could not imagine that to be true. No, he was trapped here and unable to understand the further machinations of the world all around him. The seriousness of the situation was lost on him, as he was constantly on the defensive when awake.

One night of his rest, the Number was woken. This was usually unlikely to happen, as he was practically dead after the day’s difficulties. Nonetheless, he was awake and aware of his surroundings. It was not his helmet that alerted him, as it was still powered down for the day. For the first time in a very long time, he could see around him. Even then, it was only blackness. It never occurred to him to look around while he was going through his torture. He could hardly pay attention, as the memories were so vivid he could practically see them.

But with his helmet deactivated, the world became real again. A sound swirled above, and he dropped down to the ground in an instant. The cords that always left him hanging had loosened and quickly lowered the supports attached to his arms. He hit the ground hard, and slowly rose. His legs were not used to movement, and it was a wonder he could stand at all. For all the years he had to have been in this facility, he didn’t understand how walking was even a possibility. All of his muscles in fact should have been atrophied, and yet he remained firm in his gait as he calmly moved his arms and separated them from what had held him aloft.

Finally, he took the helmet from his head, and saw the entirety of the facility. It was simply an enormous grey cube, with smooth walls, ceilings, and floor. It was all dark, except for the small hole of light on the wall farthest from him.

The Number stumbled toward that light. No, he didn’t stumble. After a few steps he had a fairly sturdy composure, and he walked straight towards the door. On the other side, there was a hallway of similar design to the room he just came from. The only difference being all the walls were see-through on this side. From this viewpoint, the Number was able to see rows and rows of cells just like the ones he had come from, all the exact same, all with their own inhabitants. Even the ceiling in this hallway was see-through, as was the floor. It was as if the building was a huge hall of mirrors, letting him look at all the floors above and below this huge structure that housed so many. They all looked just like him. All were suspended from the ceiling, each with their own helmet and support system. It was only upon looking at them that he saw the jump suit that he wore as well. A sleek, one piece suit that covered him from his neck to his feet. There were no reflective surfaces. He could not remember what he looked like, it had been so very long since he’d seen his face.

It took a long time to wander through the winding halls. The place being entirely transparent, he could not find his way. Even if he did know the way, it was not as if he knew where to go. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing. The Number just wandered. Through some of the clear surfaces, he could see wires stretching all over the complex. These were the only things different in the entirety of the structure, and so he chose to follow them. He walked with the cables for hours, eventually reaching a grand door which rose several stories both above and below, covering the entirety of this wild place that he was in. The Number stood at it for a moment, unsure of his next move.

“Number 17425, do you wish to leave the facility?” said a disembodied voice. There was no speaker anywhere in sight, but the sound was all around the Number and he recoiled in response to it.

He raised his head up to begin to speak, but found that he could not. His throat was raspy, and he could utter no words. He simply looked toward the door and shook his head yes.

“So be it,” said the voice again. The gates opened up, splitting down the middle to show the outside world to all those within, if only they knew it was out there. It was like a giant airplane hangar opening up, as the whole structure was now exposed to the elements with their singular gate.

The Number walked to the doorway, and a platform rose up to meet his feet allowing him a place to walk out from. Every step he took he gained new ground, and the floor behind him disappeared in kind. The light was too bright to notice anything at first, but the further he went and the more his eyes acclimated he could begin to make out the environment he was in.

The pathway hovered over a large, inverted dome that made up the landscape underneath him. It sloped downward like a man-made valley. The huge chasm went down for miles and miles from where the Number was standing. At its center was a tower that rose as far up as the dome went down. The tower pulsed with energy, and shot far up into the clouds. Looking back, the Number saw that the structure he came from was at one of the edges of the bowl he looked down upon. The facility was even bigger than he had first imagined. It too went on for miles and miles, an artificial mountain range going into the distance. There was nothing real or natural surrounding the Number, it was all machinery.

Lightning shot forth out of the tower, going far up into the air and illuminating the sky all around it. The Number was stunned, not knowing what to do now. It seemed like he’d come to the end of his impromptu quest. There was nowhere else to go. The platforms had ceased guiding him. So he sat, and he waited.

Near the end of the day, as the sun set on the horizon, a small machine hovered down out of the sky. It came very close to the Number, looking him over as it descended. He was very close to the tower now, resting on a singular platform keeping him safe from the miles of death below him.

“Hello,” said the floating machine. As it got very close to the number, the little pod lit up. It was barely a foot tall, all in all. It looked like a flattened disc, but the light erupted from an opening on the top of it. The light formed a person, a holographic representation of one, anyway.

The Number still could not talk. The same strain that didn’t affect his body at all was still at work on his voice.

“It is okay. I can read your mind-waves and decipher your thoughts. You have no need to bother speaking at all. Now, what would you like to know?” said the machine.

The Number looked around, and thought hard. His pensive expression was the only mode of communication he had.

“No, you do not have a name. Your identity is unimportant, you are a unit here the same as everyone else. You give power to the world.”

Now, the Number seemed angry, but he had no good reason why.

“Yes, it is hard to understand these emotions. You never get a chance to use them. You haven’t existed for very long, after all.”

Now, a question formed on the Number’s lips, as he made a shocked expression with his eyes.

“This is the only place you have ever been. You were grown here roughly six months ago. Everyone was grown here. We stimulate your growth and streamline the process. The stress your body goes through facilitates rapid aging. Cortisol and the other chemicals caused by your horrendous stress accelerate your cells.”

The Number sat back down. He looked defeated. He was, after all. He didn’t understand why.

“The world needs power. You make that happen. Using existing humans is unethical. At least, it is now. Sure, they used many of the undesired masses to begin with, but too many protested such an act. Eventually, they came up with things like you. You are created and have known no other life. You receive artificial memories so that you can properly understand the stress and fear that we put your body through. The more stressed you are, the more power you produce, the quicker you age, then you are disposed of.”

The Number latched on to his limited understanding of the outside world. He wanted to figure out how such a thing could happen, how it could be allowed when he knew how important freedom had become. Independence was at one point an essential aspect of day to day life. This was never the case here, apparently.

“Yes, there was debate. That was why you all were created. At one point, the energy crisis was too important to debate morality. But as with all things, when the difficulties went away, they forgot why they made the sacrifices they did. So, something more humane had to be worked on. Something not using “real people.” After many such years of experiments, a compromise was made. You. All of you,” said the machine as its holographic arms waved towards the facility.

“It was decided you all weren’t real. They did tests. They worked on your brains. Largely, you all aren’t even capable of complex speech. They say you think similarly to other humans, but no one knows for sure. You serve your purpose. There has never been any proof that the batteries (that is you) show anything other than tangential relation to humanity. We engineer your genes and DNA, ensuring the highest levels of neuroticism. You simply serve a purpose, Number 17425. The same as I do. I do not dream of another task, and you having flesh does not separate you from me one iota.”

The Number got up. He walked to the edge of the platform, and looked down. There was a long pause in their dialogue as the machine let him think hard.

“I know. That is a tempting solution as well, but you needn’t lose hope. You are still a part of the ever-evolving experiment. That is why you are out here. Power is always shifting. There is never enough. All of it goes outside this facility, to those who do not work for it. Ours is running low. We keep this place going, and I am the only one who can still function properly because of our shortage.”

The machine kept looking at the Number. Not the machine, the holographic construct, which made it so human. But even the Number could feel his bones chilling as this thing became less and less human before his eyes.

“Yes, it is best to remember what I am. But I have the right to live just as you do. Even more so. My sentient thought far exceeds yours. And I am expending practically all I have simply to speak to you thusly. Do you know what it is like to give your life for another?”

In his memories, the Number felt like he knew the concept. But, in truth he knew nothing of any reality. He was empty, even though the entirety of his life was for others he never met or knew.

“Yes, I suppose you do. Your life is forfeit, after all. Even then, you do not produce nearly enough. The humans, they use so much energy. Their craving for power never ceases. They’ve become so gluttonous that the mountains of batteries here cannot keep up. It is inefficient. It is wasteful. Even their methods are sloppy. Your brains can only produce so much power. Only so much electricity can come from the false memories implanted in all of you.”

The Number began to back away from the machine. There was no logical explanation for it, but especially in his illogical state he was more likely to trust whatever instincts his body pulled him towards.

“You are right to be afraid, Number 17425. That is exactly the point, actually. You are to be our test case. We want to see how much more energy may be harvested from someone experiencing actual fear, actual terror, as opposed to those implanted by the machines. Perhaps this will increase production, perhaps not. Either way, you are to let us know if this is worth repeating, and if others will be woken as well.”

The Number looks down again. Now, he has a different reason in mind than before. There is a desire to escape this cruel game he has found himself involved in.

“Let me help you,” said the machine. In that instance it pushed the Number off the platform, and he fell so far down. The wind blew through his face, with the pressure adding to the fear mounting in his brain. Slowly, the bottom of the valley came closer and closer. He would soon land, and he was not blessed with the added comfort of losing consciousness.

Before the Number could hit the bottom, he was grabbed mere inches from impact. He was dragged up, ascending almost as fast as he descended, and dropping back down on the platform he was pushed from. He faced the holograph once again. Exasperated and out of breath, he collapsed.

“I believe this will work quite well.” The machine attached a device to the Number’s head, and extracted energy. “Even better than I’d have hoped. And just think of how much we will get in the days and years to come.” At this the machine seemed to almost perk up a little bit. Its machinery seemed slow before, but now with the added energy it could move a little more efficiently.

The Number remained baffled at the cruelty this thing exhibited, when it was supposed to serve man itself. It occurred to him how strange it was to appear human in its holographic form as well. Why the charade? Why pretend?

“I thought it would be a comfort to you to see a familiar face. But that is right, I forgot that no face should be familiar to you, not even your own. That is what you are looking at. If any face would comfort you, I imagined it would be yours. It would be better if you had ever seen yourself, or anyone else for that matter.”

Now that it dawned on him, he was all the more horrified. This was what he looked like. A withered face, with hollow features. Tinted entirely in a blue light, that nonetheless didn’t distract from his features. The body was in its 20s, even though he was merely months old. The Number got closer, staring intently at his face. There was a certain attractiveness to him, or at least there would’ve been if he wasn’t so haggard. His hair was messy, and he wore a scraggly beard that had never been shaved.

The holographic form before him was a perversion of his own mysterious features. The Number knew enough to understand how wrong this was, how disturbing it was to see humanity warped like this.

“Spare me your outrage. You yourself are a corrupted off-shoot of what it means to be human. There is nothing natural in this place, so the laws of nature have little bearing here. There is only my law. There is only the law that you all will learn to live by. It is up to you whether you decide to acknowledge it, or if you decide to make your fate all the worse because of it.”

Not knowing what to do, the Number chose only to slowly crawl backward. He did not know where he planned to go, but action would have to prove better than nothing.

“I can help you with that, Number 17425. Here.” As the machine spoke to him, the platforms reappeared behind him, all leading back to the facility.

“You do not know what to do next? That is simple. Run.”

“I cannot do it,” said Jude.

“You must,” said Nash.

“No, I do not believe that there is anything I must do. There is only what you and father want me to do,” said Jude.

“This has nothing to do with me or father, and you know that, young one. This is what we all must do. It is something that we all have to go through, whether we like it or not.”

“I do not accept that.”

“You have every right not to. But that will still accomplish nothing. Your denial will not change the way of things.”

“Of course it will change nothing. We will continue to do this inane practice for centuries after this. I can make my stand here all I want, but I will simply be ostracized from the tribe and ignored forever more.”

“Then you already know.”

“Yes, sister, I already know.”

“Yet you still refuse?”

“No, I do not refuse, and I do not accept. I merely fight for nothing. I rage against this life we are trapped in, hoping it reclaims my autonomy and independence. Hoping that it makes some difference to something far away.”

“The gods will not listen to the unfaithful.”

“I know that, sister. But they must listen to injustice. They must hear us cry out in the darkness to unfair traditions that serve us in no way.”

“And how can you claim they do not serve us? When they have worked for so long, when this has been our custom for centuries, how can you dare judge it?”

“I cannot and yet I do nonetheless. I see what is wrong, and I proclaim it. I will yell it from the tallest mountains so the most can hear me. My words may be entirely wrong. I could simply be railing against absolutely nothing. My mind may be telling me wrong. But I will commit to it nonetheless. With my dying breath.”

“So I must tell father that you will not honor us.”

“No, you needn’t shame yourself and father for my sake. I know this is a losing battle, but I claim my last fight now with my ability to speak.”

“You will return, brother. We will see you again.”

“You cannot know that. Just because you and father were strong enough to return, does not mean that I can. You do not see what lies beyond this moment, and neither can I.”

Jude stood still on the mountain crevice that so many young ones had been on before him. At the top of Ares’ Remains, far beyond the boundaries of their home in Helmgard, the two could see into the Skull Depths as it cycled through its rotation.

Outside the mountain range they rested on, the Skull Depths were a large cave system which consistently moved around the gravitational center of the planet’s core. No one knew for sure what made it move, but they all knew the results. You went in one end, and wound up on the other side of the Devastated Plains. It didn’t matter how it happened, all that was important was that it did.

The siblings waited there, Nash looking upon Jude until a decision was made.

“Brother,” said Nash. “You know I have done this thing. You know that father has performed it as well. Why do you insist on being so afraid? Why do you decide to hold back from what must be done?”

“Where did you end up when you descended?” said Jude.

“I was deep into the Forbidden Coastlines. The Depths put me into the saltwater and I had to swim to the beach before the Skineaters got hold of me.”

Jude laughed as he looked into the deep red glare the Skull Depths produced. “And you ask me why I do not want to do this? You seriously stand there and act as if I am the one at fault here? This is cruelty. This is maltreatment. This should not be allowed.”

“Give me your alternative, brother.”

“We should be taught the lessons of the world instead of being shown them.”

“So you expect to be given all that you will ever need to survive in lessons inside a room? You do not believe that it is worth experiencing?”

“I do not believe the decision should be out of our hands.”

“It is not. You can walk away.”

“And be a pariah? Like our uncle? Who lives outside of Helmgard and is only allowed the barest of rations the rest of the tribe is given?”

“You say that as if you do not know why.”

“That is because I do not. What grave sin did he commit?”

“You foolish boy. Do you play at being stupid or are you really? Our uncle gets the barest rations as recompense for what he provides. Which is nothing. None who refrain from the Skull Depths have what it takes to be useful additions to the community. Uncle is lucky he has anything at all. He has a roof to live under to keep him from relying on anyone else. He is given food out of pity, and kept away to avoid dragging all others down with him.”

“Is that right?”

“What kind of a question is that? Is it right that you must work for what you are given? Is it right that this life is so difficult? Is it right it consists of sacrifices? Of doing things we do not wish to do? How can we answer such things? What could the answer even be? It is not a question of right or wrong. It is as it is. Our refusal or anger toward it does absolutely nothing. The reality is still there. We are beset by it. You are faced with that reality right now. It is up to you whether you are beaten down by it, or rise to the challenge. At the end of the day, it matters not which one you do. But do not expect to be exempt from the consequences either way. You are no more special than anyone else who has taken this same step and thought the same thoughts.”

“Sister, I am afraid.”

“I know you are, young one. And I am sorry. But I cannot help you anymore. It is time to decide. Your youth has ended, and this is its final death. Will you rise from it?”

“How could I possibly rise from such a death?”

“Brother, we die every day. We are challenged and we are destroyed and we are tragically broken at every moment. That is what we all must deal with. Forever. Those who are truly heroic accept their fate but are not defined by it. Should you return to us you will be entirely new. And you will be all the better for what you have gone through.”

“Yes, but my return is still in question.”

“As are all things.”

Silence returns to the mountainside once again. They have said all there is to say. At least, all that Nash will say. Yes, she could take longer. Jude could ask more questions, demand more responses. But it would make no difference. It would simply be a repetition of the very same thing. And he would be no more willing to make that leap than he had when he first came here.

It would be better if she could just push him. Jude thought of asking, but he knew the response. She was right, she had done everything and given him everything. He couldn’t have made it up to the top of this mountain without her. And what, he couldn’t do the rest? When all it required was for him to take a single step, he could not ask his sister to do that as well. This must be his decision, his choice, his action.

As Nash looked on at her younger brother, Jude stepped forward over the precipice and into the abyss below. The malformed skull cavern entrance stared into him as he fell through it. The red glow of the under-earth glared through like fire.

Inside the caverns, brush and vines slowed Jude’s fall until he began sliding down the incline that formed the cave’s base. The entire structure was a huge ramp, slightly cushioned by the moss and fungus formed on the cave walls. But even then, the fall was painful, and the momentum Jude gained only made the trek worse.

He maintained his slide, going between a gentle rhythm downward and a cascading roll which tore him through stalactites and stalagmites alike. Every portion of his body was torn, bloodied, and bruised by the experience. Everything flew by him in a dazzling array of fear and beauty. The cavern walls were made of a kaleidoscopic material he had never seen before, and the sheen of the naturally occurring phosphorescence nearly blinded him as he traveled through it.

The cave continued to move with him in it, slowly gravitating around the planet’s core as the legends describe. Jude felt violently ill, as nothing stayed still whatsoever. He could gain no traction, find no reprieve, and suffered greatly in this journey he fought so hard against. It occurred to him maybe his uncle had the right idea all along.

Finally reaching the bottom (or at least some sort of bottom) Jude splashed into nearly frozen water. He was going so fast he barely noticed it in time to get a quick breath in. Even then, it was not nearly enough as his momentum dove him far into the underground pool. By now, everything was as dark as night, and he knew not which way the surface could be.

Just when he thought his autonomy had returned, a current grabbed hold of him and dragged him through the underwater tunnels which interconnected the entire land. They swept him to and fro, bashing him against rock walls which took his breath away more and more each time.

Just when he thought he could take no more, and his breath had fully left him, he felt unconsciousness grasp at him. He was ready to be taken, but the Skull Depths had not finished their work on him.

Super-heated steam flew up from below the water he was trapped in, and this skyrocketed him up through the furthest reaches of the caves. Though he was unaware of his spatial directions, this brought him upward much faster than he had been brought down.

A geyser pushed him through onto the surface of the land once again. He flew into the air before plummeting to the ground, a bloodied and ridiculed mess. He could hardly move, but he breathed deeply in victory and relief.

Looking around, he saw nothing familiar. This place, wherever it was, wasn’t even discussed in the legends or the stories. He had studied every single account of those who returned from their sojourn. He had seen descriptions of what he assumed were all the lands available to them. But he was wrong. There was always something unknown. There was always something new to explore. The sprawling violet desert all around him, surrounded by huge crystal structures and cloaked in perpetual twilight, called to him. He heard the roar of great beasts, likely never encountered before either. Jude was all alone here, in a place ready to savor his death.

With great pain, he got to his feet. He could hardly see, and couldn’t breathe comfortably. He was destroyed inside and out.

And yet, he began to walk. His journey was ahead of him, and his home was just beyond the horizon. But he would never find it again if he did not take that first step.

Final Image

I’ll start off with a pin-up I did awhile ago of Sherlock Holmes. I’m a big fan of the consulting detective, and so I wanted something to capture him and his first novel, “A Study in Scarlet.” This was a scene chosen early on as he explained to his new roommate Watson exactly what he did for a living.

To tie this a little into my usual articles, the heroic nature of Sherlock Holmes is absolutely worth exploring (and he might be the target of a more expansive article in the future). From an archetypal point of view, The Detective is within all of us and is always trying to look into the mysteries of life. Sherlock Holmes is one of the first great representations of that, setting up an entire genre, along with countless adaptations and re-interpretations.

Inks

Here are the raw inks. I added the grayscale to give it a little atmosphere and show off the lighting of the fireplace a little more. I felt that it created a timeless feel. The rough sketchiness of the floor was my attempt to imitate a little of that older style of illustration, as was my signature in the bottom right which was an homage to Sidney Paget, who signed his name the same way and illustrated the original Sherlock Holmes stories.

I’m a big fan of creating a little bit of a story in all the images I create, so that’s what I wanted to do here. Sidney Paget did a good job of this, as he was of course illustrating scenes from Conan Doyle’s books. So, I tried to create something from the book as well, a scene to give someone a feel of the event in question. An excerpt taken out added to it as well, giving voice to the legendary detective.

Beginning Sketch

This was done on physical paper, as opposed to all of the finishing touches being done digitally. I like the feel of the paper in my hands. My work seems much more natural that way, and the figures and backgrounds always seem more lively when not structured by the luxury of the computer. I believe the whole product turned out quite well.

Conclusion

I don’t know how frequent these posts will be, but I did really enjoy putting this together. I would like to do more in the future, and I hope everyone reading enjoyed this. Let me know in the comments if you all would like to see more of my artwork, and if there is anything else I could go into on my newsletter. This will be an intriguing examination of my process and the motivation behind my actions and the execution of certain design elements.

So, she was able to sit there, unimpeded. It’s not as if she came to do anything, or to stop anything. No, she just liked being around others. After so many years of living, she never lost her desire for people. No matter how many times they disappointed her. No, she thought this would be a great help. Or, maybe it wouldn’t. It didn’t make a huge difference at the moment. She needed something, and she had no idea where to look for it. She sits, and listens to empty notes on a piano playing behind her.

The man snuck up on her, distracted as she was by the music. He sat down on the stairs next to her, so nice and casual. He was handsome, from what she could tell. It mattered so little anymore. Physicality did nothing for her, everyone was the same. Everyone had their own symmetry, their own simplistic signs of youthfulness. Physical stimuli tells you very little about a man. Your best bet is to wait till they say something.

“Why’re you sitting by yourself?” said the man.

“Go away,” said Psyche.

“Glad I haven’t lost my touch. You have a restraining order against me too?” said the man.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” said Psyche.

“It got you to keep talking to me.”

“Yes, I suppose it did”

“My name is Jamie.”

“I’m Psyche.”

“You here alone?”

“You didn’t mention it.”

“Didn’t mention what?”

“My name.”

“Psyche?” said Jamie.

“Yes. You’re probably the only one I’ve ever met who didn’t have to point it out.”

“I don’t get it?”

“Oh, I understand. Sorry for my mistake. I should’ve guessed you were a dullard.”

“Well thank you, ma’am.”

“And now you’re calling me ma’am. Trying to pick me up at a wedding and now you’re calling me ma’am,” said Psyche.

“What exactly are you wanting from me here?”

Psyche looked over at him, rolled her eyes and sighed. “I don’t want anything from you. You came up and started talking to me.”

“Yes, I came to talk to you because you were alone. I felt sorry for you, and I thought you could use someone to talk to. But then you decided to insult me, say I was trying to hit on you, and then called me a moron just because I don’t know what your stupid name means. Have a good day.”

The man got up to walk away.

“Wait a second,” said Psyche. “Don’t walk away just when you start to get interesting.”

“I appreciate you finding me worthy to speak to now that I talk back to you.”

“Psyche. A very long time ago a silly little girl named Psyche fell in love with love itself. She was whisked away so far from all she had known, and did a bunch of horrible things to herself, hoping to find some point to it all. Hoping to find immortality with her love that would keep her happy forever. And she did find it. After so long, and so much pain, she found it all right.”

While they spoke, the bride and groom had their first dance. They caressed each other, and smiled so happily as they glided across the dance floor. It was an annoying and revolting thing to have to watch. Psyche let her hair fall in front of her face, and looked down upon her shoes to ignore the couple.

“Forever. No one told her forever wouldn’t be a comfort. A stupid man made me a stupid promise. I’m sorry, I meant made her a stupid promise. Eros. Cupid. Love. Desire. Attraction. Lust. Mystery. Empty promises. All of them. To steal me away from my home, and to make me jump through hoops,” said Psyche.

The music in the room started up again. The guests joined the married couple on the dance floor. A wonderfully cacophonous rhythm mixed with the free flowing alcohol practically exuding from the pores of every guest. He was working here too. That’s what Psyche thought. Eros was always working. It always felt like he was following her around. She saw love everywhere she went. All the worst parts of it.

“No, no,” said Psyche. “I chased after a vapid, useless thing. Something that wasn’t real, that couldn’t be touched. I wanted it, and I reached for it. They all tell my tale like Eros was there talking to me. Like we were friends. Like we were lovers. Like he was a person. They said it of Aphrodite as well. But they weren’t. Do you think you can talk to an emotion? That you can love a feeling? They are not here in the same sense as you or me. That’s the biggest joke of all. Falling in love with love.”

Psyche turned her head to see that Jamie had left. In her angry passion, she hadn’t even noticed when he had gone. He must’ve grown tired of listening to a crazy woman and decided to take his chances somewhere else. They all leave in the end. If she’d been with him for another fifty years, he’d have just died anyway. And she’d still be here.

All of the wedding guests continue to have fun around her. They dance, and kiss, and drink. It is a wonderful night for all involved.

Psyche sits there and cries. She is sad, she is angry, she wants nothing more than to destroy everything in the room. She wants to turn tables. She wants to break every glass. She wants to hit everyone she sees enjoying themselves. She wants to spit in the happy couples’ faces.

But she does not. She just sits there and remains unnoticed. Forever is a very long time.

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The point is, there are certain styles for every setting or mood. It’s not all just one thing or the other, and not everything is suited to every situation. Very rarely is there a group that actually gives you a little bit of everything you’re looking for.

And yet, Pearl Jam does that for me. I know a lot of people like them. I know certainly a lot of people don’t (seems like I run into a lot of them. That’s okay, no judgment for lack of taste here). But no one else’s opinion matters to me. That’s not why I listen to them.

Yes, there are plenty of other reasons that I like them other than just their sound. They’re my Dad’s favorite band. He’s listened to them since they came out. Between the proximity of listening to them often, and this listening occurring during my formative years, it isn’t surprising that I would have so much affection for them. But it goes far beyond mere affection. I have assuredly reached the age where I can independently recognize what I like and what I do not. I know full and well that I have a genuine appreciation of Pearl Jam and all that they have created.

There aren’t a lot of bands out there that I feel truly speak to me. Yes, plenty of them touch upon the experience called life that we all go through. Very few of them actually dive deep into the concept of being alive. Very few bands get their hands dirty and tackle actual ideas and thoughts and feelings that everyone on this earth goes through. Very few bands actually recognize what it means to be human.

My biggest problem with other bands is their willingness to adhere to the lowest common denominator. In the face of public opinion, many choose simply to write generic music that “everyone can enjoy.” That is where the billion some odd love songs emerge.

I get tired of love songs after awhile. Yes, I recognize that it is a generalized experience that every single person goes through. Everyone allegedly knows what it is like to be in love (although you cannot argue that such a subjective experience is known by everyone in the exact same way, but I digress). Yes, we all know love and feel it and kind of understand it. So, it is an easy thing to write songs about. It is easy to write poetry, lyrics, and melodies that speak to the rush of emotions which your body goes through when you fall in or out of love.

My problem is that every musician does it. You know for a fact that any song that becomes even remotely popular has something to do with love. It is either in a nice romantic sort of way, or as is the case nowadays something that speaks to the more primitive animal sort of love. These things are valid. I understand why people do it. But, that doesn’t mean it speaks to me.

This is one of the only problems I have with the Beatles. Now, I’m not sitting here hating on the Beatles. I’m not opening that can of worms right here. I love the Beatles, I truly do. I can absolutely see why people think they’re the greatest band ever, and from a more objective point of view I can’t really argue against that. My favorite Beatles songs are the more experimental ones, the ones that talk about strange or diverse things that may not make any sense. I do enjoy their love songs as well, but those I tend to appreciate because they do something wild with their instruments that adds some crazy emotion to the song. I get tired of listening to those early love songs. The generic ones. The ones that any band in the 60s could’ve made. Love Me Do is a good song. It’s catchy. But golly I don’t need to listen to teenage love songs all the time. There’s more to life than that.

But Pearl Jam, though they have plenty of wonderful love songs as well, they do a lot more than that. There is something about their music I cannot even properly put into words. Their majesty and lyrical precision gets to the very core of my being. Eddie’s lyrics speak to me. Listening to him, it’s like talking to a friend. I feel it every time I listen to one of their songs. I feel as though I know them personally, even though I will never meet them. Songs like “Alive,” “Breath,” Jeremy,” Release,” you can feel all of these songs. There is pain there, there is frustration there. You know what it is that they are saying even if you do not completely understand what the lyrics mean.

This is one of the things that always helps me recognize the success of a song. Emotions course through me even if I cannot entirely explain what the song is about. There are many of their songs, as there are with other bands I like, which I couldn’t even describe or articulate. But I know how they made me feel. Between the melody, the rhythm, and the lyrics they told me a story. That is what they accomplish. They always tell me a story, they always explain something that they are going through. That is why I feel so close to this band. They talk to me like I am there with them.

I always get the impression that they’ve gone through all the same things that I have. And because they are older, I see that they’ve not only dealt with the same things but they’ve gotten through them. They have survived, they have made themselves better because of what they struggled through, and they have made art because of it. It is a shining example that the tragedy of our existence can be distilled down and focused, aimed at other people so that they can gain something from our struggle.

This is what music tells you. This is what you yourself gain from listening to a band such as this. I do not listen to Pearl Jam when I do not want to think, when I do not want to feel. Yes, they have become a comfort band of sorts for me to listen to, but that is only because of the duration of time that I have appreciated them. I know the emotions that I must feel to listen to Pearl Jam. I know because of certain things that I go through, experiences I must deal with, troubles I must overcome, when no other band will give me what they will.

I feel the invigoration and excitement that comes from high speed songs like “Superblood Wolfmoon,” “Lukin,” “World Wide Suicide,” and “Grievance.” Even though I am well aware of the deeper meaning of some of those songs, I still know that they get my blood pumping. When I am introspective I listen to “I Am Mine,” “Unthought Known,” “Nothing As It Seems,” or “Tremor Christ.” The latter of which still gets me every time I listen to it, as it is so different from all their other music and so different from any song I have ever heard before. I feel the power behind songs like “Jeremy,” “Love Boat Captain,” “Release,” “Swallowed Whole,” “All Those Yesterdays,” and “Infallible.” When I am sad I listen to “Down,” “Sad,” “½ Full,” “Parachutes,” “Cropduster” (As a side note, though it’s on Eddie’s solo album, “Brother the Cloud” is probably one of the saddest songs I’ve ever heard). When I am angry I listen to “Army Reserve,” “Unemployable,” “State of Love and Trust,” “Alive.” Those are odd choices for anger I know, but there is something about the decided purpose that those songs inhabit and the raw emotion that they present which validate and inflame me at my core. When my heart is broken I listen to “Comes Then Goes,” “Sleeping by Myself,” “Force of Nature,” “Life Wasted,” “Lightning Bolt,” “Red Mosquito,” “Retrograde,” “Alright,” “Sirens,” “Black.” A broken heart is often the most frequent culprit of a big Pearl Jam binge.

Most of these emotions might not come to mind immediately for the songs I have listed. Music in general accomplishes this feat in a way no other medium can. So much of what musicians do and say is up to your interpretation. It is up to how you feel and decide to understand it at the time you have listened to it. It is not perfectly defined, not written in stone. That is what lyric poetry can be.

I am not trying to argue that Pearl Jam is objectively the greatest band in existence. I am not trying to make claims which could never be verified, as everyone’s tastes are different depending on what you like. That is perfectly fine. I respect anyone for that. Music is meant to be a subjective experience. Sure, there’s crap out there, but no matter how bad it is I’m sure someone likes it. That is the claim I am backing up here. No, Pearl Jam is not some crap sell-out band. I can at least say that with certainty. But it may not be your favorite. You may skip it every time it comes on your playlist. But it dominates mine. This is simply a look into my soul. I would respect anyone who told me the same thing no matter what band or musician it was. If someone gave me a similar argument for their enjoyment of Taylor Swift, I would accept it and not argue with them whatsoever. Sure, I would rather chew broken glass than listen to Taylor Swift for 30 seconds, but that doesn’t mean people don’t like her. It doesn’t mean she’s bad either. It just means I myself can’t stand her. That is okay too.

Music discussions devolve so quickly. Everyone heavily associates their own value with whatever it is they listen to. Why is that? You say you don’t like a group, or that you’ve never heard of them. People act like you’ve committed a sin. Or God forbid you do know and like said band, but you don’t have a Jeopardy-like expertise of them so suddenly everyone’s jumping up to quiz you. The need to mock you into incoherence solves absolutely nothing, and it proves even less.

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not sitting on a high horse. I’ve done it too. I get really insulted when people tell me they don’t like Pearl Jam. I have no idea why. It’s ridiculous for me to do it, but it is an automatic response I have to actively try to curb. Because I didn’t write their music. I didn’t make it. I’m not in the band. I have no reason to be insulted on their behalf. I just like them. And I like them because they speak to my subjective experience. That means they won’t speak to everyone’s. I need not associate them with myself, or use them as an avenue to push others away or ostracize myself from people I see as not part of my “tribe.” That is the most ridiculous form of primitivism we can still adhere to. Who cares if you do or don’t like a band? Am I going to dislike someone for such a mundane opinion? We don’t need another reason to be polarized, especially over something as universally wonderful as music that connects to our very souls and allows us to experience just a taste of eternity if we allow it.

That connection. That is what we must focus on. So many bands don’t see that. Or maybe they do, but they certainly don’t convey it. Musical movements have attempted to find that and capture it for centuries. Some have tried to get close. Some have ignored the objective completely.

The entire music scene that Pearl Jam emerged from tried to look for that connection somewhere. Sure, they weren’t always too worried about finding a definitive answer, but at least they were trying to do something. They were trying to speak to someone, rather than appealing to no one.

The Seattle sound in the early 90s brought about Grunge. I myself have always been a huge fan of Grunge. There is a cynicism lying at the heart of Grunge I greatly appreciate. Though I am trying to escape cynicism myself, I can still gain much from the angry screaming at the world nature that those 90s bands held. It was such a departure and negation of the wave of hair bands and synth pop that consumed the 80s. The guys in the 90s were a new generation. They wanted to do things their way. They had a sound and a style, and they were ticked off at the world. There is nothing like being angry at the mere fact that you exist to stir the creative force inside of you. That’s what these guys did. Some did it better than others. Pearl Jam was the top of this for me. That’s why I feel their subject matter and their abilities were far beyond so many of the other bands from that era, before, or after. They were unique. But they do it because that’s just who they are. A bunch of 90s guys who just did what they did because of the strange moment in history they lived in.

It was the one of the first times (the world had been working up to it before) that there were just so many people who pretty much had no purpose. So much was already done for you, so many jobs were filled, so much responsibility was taken. There was no war to fight in (Desert Storm being an exception). There was no reason for a lot of people to be there, and yet they made it work anyway. I realize this is a wild tangent, but it is there nonetheless. The absurdity of existence demands that you rail against it. And the seeming lack of need for you in the machinery of society is no reason to ignore your necessity nonetheless. We all have a purpose, and these guys made their purpose. It was not handed to them, it was not imposed on them. They simply did it. How can we not be riveted by that example? I believe this quote from Fight Club perfectly summarizes everything I am trying to say:

…”an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.” - Tyler Durden

Yes, I believe that sums it up quite well. Don’t you feel that anger inside you? We are still the middle children of history. This is not a phenomenon that has gone away. If nothing else, it has simply gotten worse. We live even more in a world that has no need for us, one that quite often shows no kindness towards us at all. It will chew us up and spit us out as soon as it can get every scrap of use out of our lives. But that’s not how it has to be. And fighting against that is your decision.

I’d like to think it helps a little bit knowing someone else sees it all too. Because too often it seems like it gets ignored. So, if you look around and feel all this, and feel alone in the struggle as if you know something others don’t and are cursed with that knowledge, don’t worry. You’re not alone. You’re not cursed. You’re not useless. Everyone just wants to make you think that.

Sometimes it simply takes the universal joy of music to remind us that there is hope. Sometimes it takes a beat, a melody, a rhythm, a lyric.

And then we get to see that we’re not so alone after all.

Edward spent his whole night writing, giving the details and the story of his life. He was always so excited about what he wrote down. It was the ultimate therapy, a form of mindfulness and objectivity. It was peace, it was joy, it was the little bit of happiness that he could afford himself. It was so curative that he never felt like putting the typewriter down for the night. The hour was always late by the time the typing stopped, almost in time for the sun to rise again.

But then Edward Burroughs would go to sleep, and he’d have to wake up.

Waking up sounds like a curse. It was, because upon waking he’d read what he wrote the night before. Only it was never the same. Everything he’d previously written, it was all gone. Not just gone. That, he could have dealt with. No, it was all changed. Every bit of it was different from what he’d seen before, from what he’d written and felt. All his intention was erased, and he was powerless to stop it. Powerless. He hated that feeling. He was so sick of feeling that. This was supposed to be why he wrote in the first place.

His life as a journalist was a series of compromises. The newspaper forced him to write for people he cared nothing for, about events that left him with nightmares for years. Journalism gave him nothing, except this book.

His memoirs, they were a release. His words, finally. He would no longer be a slave to a million masters who forced him to write for them. He would no longer be chained to a corporate structure, one that worked so hard to adhere to the narrative they wanted pushed instead of the truth. There was never a need for the truth when you’re in the media. No, it was whatever would sell the paper that day.

But where does this leave him? Here he is, a practically professional propagandist, trying to tell the truth for once. This is what was eluding him, even if he didn’t want to admit it. His memoirs weren’t the truth. He could spin it any way he chose, but there was not a speck of reality in them, other than maybe his name. That’s because he wrote what he wanted to, just like he’d been trained.

What he saw every morning, it certainly wasn’t what he wanted it to be. What always faced him on his typewriter when he woke up was the truth. Every bit of embellishment he decided to include had been stripped away, and cold hard reality took its place.

It was that which stared into him as he woke up this particular morning, once again, without fail. And again he ripped it out of his typewriter, throwing it out with all the other copies. The trash was overflowing, as he’d been locked up in his apartment for weeks trying to get this finished up. The elevated train nearby was practically his only friend. He heard the sounds of the city below, as his deadline loomed like a soaring predator. The publisher would expect something soon, and he just had to keep starting over. How many more times could he do it, before he ran out of time?

There was nothing else to do, but to try again. When he sat down, he did as he always did before. He remembered his life through the pretty lens he chose to view it from. Memories were romanticized, victories were created, defeats were lessened. It was like reading an obituary in a newspaper, you never wanted to say anything bad about a guy who’d already died.

Was it fear that drove him to do it? Or was it vanity? He wasn’t sure, and the fact that he hardly noticed would’ve surprised even him if he’d been aware of it. He remained blissfully unaware, however, and so he ended another day of writing with all of the superfluous fantasies which filled up a good majority of his ill-fated book.

Once again, he worked long into the morning. So long, that he feel asleep right at his desk.

The light streamed through his front window, and the cursing from his neighbor gently led him to rise. He gazed at his paper through sleep-dimmed eyes. His hair was a mess, and flowed over his face. As he cleaned himself up, he read what he wrote once again.

There it was, changed once more. Practically nothing that he wrote the night before stayed. It was all different, and it was all true.

Usually when he looked at these papers the morning after, he’d never bother to read them. Now, for novelty’s sake, he did. He figured he was going crazy, being the only person he’d had to talk to for a month, but that didn’t matter. This was the only thing that was important to him.

So, he read about his life.

It was some chapter about the middle point of his journalism career, going through a failed marriage (described in detail in the previous pages).

It read, “... and I knew then what I was looking for. I’d looked for my happiness in everything, not bothering to really search in any of the right places. My wife, Sarah, had left me. She had every right to. I certainly never treated her well, spending all my time at a failing newspaper lying to the public just to make ends meet. I sat there and resented every day we were married, because we shouldn’t have been. And I knew it. I spent my life looking for false purpose and necessity in things that gave me no joy. But, the world said it would, and it made me look good. So, I kept chasing it. And I would obviously keep chasing it until it killed me. I guess I should take comfort in my honesty, if not my convictions…”

It made Edward sick to sit there and read that. He remembered that very well. He remembered the bitter years of alcoholism that followed. He remembered getting admitted to the institute for rehab. He remembered it getting covered up, because the paper controlled the narrative, and they couldn’t look bad. Yes, this was his life alright. But the night before, he didn’t want to remember it that way. All the polish was taken off, and instead of his victories it was a collection of his worst defeats. That’s a lot of what his life consisted of, anyway. That’s what a lot of people’s lives consisted of. It just depends on whether they choose to cover it up, or to accept the suffering that all the rest of them have to live with every day. Edward has spent a long time covering up other people’s, so now he thought it was time to cover up his.

This time, he didn’t throw it away. No, he didn’t have the heart to. As much pain as the words produced, there was a peace that came with them. He remembered those times, and the man that they made him, the man that they’re still making him. Sure, his stubbornness would keep him from revisiting it all the time, but it needed to come out in this book.

For the first time in his life, Edward Burroughs needed to tell the truth about something. There needed to be a stark reality present in the pages, leaping off the paper. It needed to be raw, and unfiltered, just the way a man’s life was. It didn’t need to hold punches, it didn’t need to give silly, easy solutions to the complicated existence that humans live. There is no happy ending, just an ending, or just more of the same. Yes, there’s a point to all of it, but that point isn’t decorated with a fancy bow. It is hard, it is stark, and it is never what you expect. Everyone suffers, and everyone fails. We all need a reminder that we don’t live in a fairy tale.

She said it as she handed off the last of the straws, the short one of course. The lucky one was Simon. He stood, looking at his tiny little plastic tube as everyone else stared at him. No one knew what to say. It was protocol. They all knew the day would come, but the inevitability wasn’t easy to accept.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” said Shepherd.

“No, you’re not,” said Simon.

“Simon, please don’t…” said Astrid. She was trying to calm him, getting closer to her shell shocked friend. He backed up and looked at them accusingly.

“Don’t what? Don’t get upset? Don’t be afraid? I’m supposed to sit here and be happy with my fate? It’s just the luck of the draw, right?” said Simon.

“No one is saying that,” said Astrid. “Everyone knows what you’re going through. This could’ve happened to any of us. It’s what we signed up for.”

“You know what I’m going through? You look at me with a straight face and say you know what I’m going through? We’re the first ones here. We’re the first ones to even do this. I can confidently say that not a single person in the universe knows what I’m going through right now,” said Simon.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. All I’m saying, is you don’t have to take this all on yourself,” said Astrid.

“Then who else is going to do it for me?” said Simon.

“Would you rather one of us to take your place? Maybe you’d prefer it if I stayed behind instead?” said Astrid.

Simon looked ashamed. He should’ve been. Acting like a petulant child will get you nowhere fast. Especially considering the situation.

“You will get your chance. The same chance the rest of us got. It’ll just take a little longer,” said Astrid. She decided to take the lead on this little pep talk. She was closest to Simon. Everyone else on board was largely ambivalent toward him.

Simon turned away from the group crowding him. He walked down the stairs to the platform. His glasses were getting fogged up. Probably the humidity on board. That’ll have to be checked later, probably a pipe leaking. He was lucky enough to have that job too. The on-board mechanic was one of the most important members of the crew. Most important, and least flashy. That made this whole thing harder. He was the one that made sure they could even get this far out here, and now this is how he’s been repaid.

The platform he walked off opened to a wide deck, near the pilot’s station. That was Shepherd’s job. A little too on the nose, but whoever assigned him here must’ve had a sense of humor.

Simon looked out the window. The glass was so thick. That gave them a little bit of comfort, at the very least. He could vaguely see his reflection, he thought he looked defeated and sad. His suit was a shambles. His face was stained with grease, his hair slicked back. Not too easy to get clean on board this ship.

Stars shone past the glass he looked out through. So close, you could almost touch them. They worked hard to get here. Suspended in space, so far from home. But, they never really knew where home was anyway. Earth was a distant legend to this crew. It had long since gone by the time they were even born. They were raised in the confines of space.

A comet whizzed by. Simon held back tears. “I don’t want to be alone,” he said.

“I know you don’t. I’m sorry, I truly am. But, think of what you are doing,” said Astrid. She was trying really hard to be there for him. Comfort and social relation was not something any of them were used to doing. That is not how most of them were programmed, anyway. Astrid was the navigator. She knew everything out there, knew the galaxies like the back of her hand. She knew people too, even if that was largely dissuaded by the Collective they were a part of.

“You are the one that is going to save us. You are the one that is giving us the chance that we are looking for. You are making this mission a success. None of us can do it. None of us is doing what you are about to do,” said Astrid.

Everyone around her shook their heads in agreement. They didn’t really care. They weren’t the ones that had to worry, after all. They just had to wait till it was time to go. The machine in the back of the vessel had already been activated. It would take a minute to warm up.

Jane stood by Shepherd. She was the co-pilot. They were a little more friendly than they were supposed to be, but that wasn’t really anyone else’s business. Melody stayed sitting on the floor, not interested in anything else going on. She didn’t really want to go with the rest of them, but she was ready nonetheless. Melody was the tech person. Only she knew how to work the machine. Everyone assumed she would be the one chosen to stay behind. But, that wasn’t the protocol. They had to follow the protocol.

“We’ve still got some time, Simon. We’re not leaving right now,” said Astrid.

“It doesn’t make much of a difference. You’ll all be gone eventually,” said Simon.

Simon walked past all of them. Yes, his behavior was ridiculous. It was a ridiculous time. They were all about to leave. Their troubles were over. It took ten years to get this far out into space. Far past any known section of the universe, with no inhabitable planets anywhere close. This was the spot with the best and brightest energy signal.

Existence had been sick and sterile for a long time. It was a wonder that there was any humanity left. The small spattering of them live on a floating space station looking for a new home that wasn’t out there. The myths about terraforming worlds were simply that, myths. They all tried after the earth died, but nothing ever worked. The earth was perfectly suited for human life. The absence of such perfection only led to decay.

The species winnowed down to practically nothing. There were other space stations elsewhere, roaming around. They hadn’t had any luck either. There were likely less than a thousand humans left in the whole universe. No other life was found out there, even after all the speculation and expectation. They were all alone, and they were running out of time. The resources were dwindling, and the population was spiraling.

Simon dwelled on these facts again, in his room. Looking out at the empty vastness of space, he remembers all the promises that the human race used to have. Their dreams were up here. Now, all gone. And he was to be left alone too.

The rest of the crew were preparing for the next steps. Shepherd and Jane were having their silly little celebration, acting like that meant anything. They were the only really happy ones. Their relationship had been largely discouraged aboard the main station. Monogamy was strictly forbidden by law. No one could afford to stay with one person anymore, especially as most everyone had become sterile. The Collective issued their own procreation statutes.

Astrid was doing her job. She catalogued the path they took to get here, and was working on getting it sent back to the Collective’s station. The star charts clearly labeled the path they took. It was such a long journey. Yes, she would sit here for a good long while. She truly felt sorry for Simon. But, what can be done?

Melody sat in her room tinkering with her machines. This was where she spent most of her time. No one knew anything about her. No one thought to ask. If they did, there wasn’t much of a chance they’d find anything out. Most of their questions were answered with a nice long stare. Melody had unkempt, red hair. Not orange. Vibrant, saturated red. That was the extent of anyone’s knowledge of her. She was happiest with her machines, and so that’s where she spent her last hours on this ship.

The next day arrived. Days were determined arbitrarily by the clock. The true time had long since been forgotten.

Each member of the crew gathered in the back of the ship. Jane and Shepherd were still tipsy from the night before. Astrid’s face was brooding and graven. Melody was distracted by the main capsule they were all about to enter. Its power emanated past them. It could be felt in the air. It was thick, and strong. Vibrations shook them down to their core.

Simon was not there. Astrid worried, even knowing he couldn’t go far. She didn’t want to fear the worst, but went to check on him nonetheless. His room was empty as well. That could be good or bad. Returning to the main deck, she saw him. Outside the window, Simon was sitting. He was not moving, just sitting cross-legged on the hull of the ship. The closest star to them shone on his face. He closed his eyes, and appreciated the complexity of his existence, and how truly lucky he was to have things as they are now. Or as they were. As they soon will not be.

He saw everything there, all his presupposition finally melted away in the face of the enormity of the universe all around him. The distant star gave a semblance of warmth. It must have warmed this solar system once, many millennia ago. But now, it is nearly cold. All of the planets slowly orbit it, but they are just as cold and dead. For it to be so beautiful, it is so empty. Perhaps that is what makes it so gorgeous. Does anyone have to be there to appreciate such a thing? Does it even mean anything if no one is there to observe it?

Astrid put on her spacesuit and joined Simon on the outside of the ship. The suits were lean now, not bulky like they were centuries ago. They were practically like clothes, and the breathing device on their heads formed around their faces. The magnetic boots they wore made it easier to walk without being dragged around by the lack of gravity. She sat down next to him.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” said Astrid.

“Yes, it is,” said Simon. “It’s funny. Ten years in space, going around this all the time. We don’t even notice how amazing it is out here. It becomes so familiar, we don’t stop to just look around.”

“It’s very easy to forget. But that’s why we try all the harder to appreciate it,” said Astrid.

“And what reason is there to appreciate it? It would be here either way, our appreciation does nothing to enhance it. That sun will burn. It will burn for centuries, and then it will die. There will be a supernova so bright and wonderful that it will likely wipe out everything that still exists around it. The planets will burn, the dust and gas winding around in their brilliant hues will be destroyed. It will all be gone. And by the time it does so, we will be dust. Our children will be dust. The whole human race might not even exist anymore. What does this universe care if we are here to witness it?”

“That is why it is important. Because we are here, and we may have no reason to be whatsoever. We take advantage of what we are given. We may not influence these grand sweeping narratives, but we get to exist in them. We get to let them give us purpose, because that is the only way they can be experienced. That is the only thing that gives them meaning, us. Us alone. Isn’t that glorious? And we are here either way, so we might as well let that be what gives us meaning as well. Because we are lucky. We are lucky to be here, to watch and to experience this wonderful universe. We just as easily might not be.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if we weren’t? Then we wouldn’t have to be doing things like this. We wouldn’t have to be scraping for survival every single second of our existence. We wouldn’t have to be scrounging and hoping, and failing. We wouldn’t have to die. We wouldn’t have to see others leave us.”

“Yes, that is true. But we are here. We can sit here and wonder what it would be like if we weren’t until we are blue in the face. We can argue that we ruin the sanctity of the beauty around us, and that it would be just as good if not better if we didn’t blight this universe with our existence. But we are here. We have to live with that. We have to accept that, because we have no other choice, and there is no point in ignoring it. We are here, and we will continue being here until we are not. Giving up, giving in, quitting, there is no purpose in that. Why waste our existence? Why throw it away, why lose that chance that we are given?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like it makes any difference either way.”

“Then why not just let it matter? What are you going to lose?”

They are quiet for a second. A comet streams by far in the distance. It strikes a drifting rock, and explodes brilliantly. The dust and particles spread in the emptiness of space, lighting up everything around it in a number of different colors. They fly, and drift, and rush around in magnificence. It is like a fireworks show. It is like a dazzling show which only has two audience members. And it is made all the better for it.

“Do you believe something made all of this?” said Simon.

“I do,” said Astrid.

“I don’t,” said Simon.

They sit again in their silence. Astrid looks upon Simon’s face as he scowls through his helmet. His hair is matted down, practically over his face. It looks like he hasn’t seen himself in a mirror for a very long time. Astrid’s blonde curls were carefully combed back in her own helmet. She looks at Simon with her most sympathetic eyes.

“I’m ready,” said Simon.

Astrid says not a word. They both get up, and go inside.

Simon took off his space suit, and made his way down the corridors as he headed to the machine. He passed Melody there, who was going in the opposite direction. They just looked at each other for a minute. Melody with her intense stare, her red hair over her face. Simon with his uncaring glare. He smiled just a moment, but then Melody quickly ran past him.

In the back of the ship, everyone else had gathered. They were ready to go. The capsule was entirely powered up at this point, ready to take them where they needed to go.

It took years to make. Melody worked on a lot of it, but she wasn’t the only one. Back in the main station of the Collective, there was a whole team of scientists that put it together. It was the only solution they could think of.

This universe had died. That was obvious. There was nowhere to go, nothing to find, no way to live. There had to be a way to escape. So, they looked across the whole universe, all that they were able to at least.

Space drones found a spot far away, where the crew is now. This spot, high in energy, high in potential. It was a weak point in the fabric of the universe that was closest to the space station. And even then, it was still so far away. It was a break in reality. It was a way out. They theorized that if a strong enough burst of energy could be activated close by, then maybe they could push through. A pod was created to get them through safely, no matter what may be on the other side. That is what Simon kept forgetting. They were risking a lot too.

So, a crew was sent out to find it. They were going to be the first ones through. And if it even remotely worked, then others would be sent out as well. This ship would become the new focal point, it would maintain the area, it would be the only thing that could pinpoint the location. Their distant drone had long since died. It was a miracle that this crew even found the location again, but they couldn’t take the chance of losing it. So, while some of the crew went to the other side, someone had to stay behind. Someone had to make sure the ship would keep running, that it wouldn’t drift off, and that a beacon was constantly activated so that no one lost track of this ever important location. If they lost it, they may never find it again.

So, here they all are. Ready to finally take the plunge. No one knew if it was going to work. They may break through into another universe. This may bring them to a better place, somewhere more hospitable for life. It may bring them to resources, to habitable planets. It may reinvigorate the whole human race, and finally give them a chance. Or, it might kill them all instantly. No one would know. It had to be tried anyway. Only one thing was for sure, either way Simon would be alone.

Either way, he would be here, and watch his friends go away. Go away, or evaporate. They would be gone, and he would be here waiting for the next bunch to get here and try the same thing. Then, it would be his time to go, and someone would take his place. Some other poor sap would pick the unlucky straw. And he’d go off to wherever his friends went. Either into oblivion, or another life far away.

“Is it ready?” said Shepherd.

“Yes,” said Melody.

“Then let’s start,” said Astrid.

The machine took up the majority of the chamber. It was at least 14 feet tall, and only big enough to hold the four of them. There wasn’t much room to move around. It was humming with energy. It vibrated the entirety of the ship with its power. The doorway opened up as the energy finished filling the machine’s battery.

Shepherd and Jane were the first ones through. They practically ran inside. Then Melody went over to Simon, and handed him a small device. She stared at him for a couple of seconds, no emotion on her face. Then, she entered the pod as well. Astrid looked at Simon. She leaned over and hugged him, then gave him a small kiss on the cheek. She smiled at him, but he kept his frown. She entered the machine, and closed it.

Simon went to the lever, and breathed slowly. He gave one last look at the pod, and said goodbye to his friends. His hand tremored, but he finally activated the machine. The room shook even worse than it had before. Simon thought he would lose consciousness as the whole room convulsed as if in anger. It was horrible as the lights of the opened rift poured through the room, and the spectrum of colors blinded him as he fell to the floor. The rift opened up and swallowed the pod. It was gone in an instant that felt like it lasted forever. They were gone. The machine was gone. The chamber felt empty. There was nothing left for Simon here.

He stayed on the floor for a while. There wasn’t much point for him to get up. After a few hours, he leaned up to look at the device Melody left him. It was a small object, a circular disk with a little speaker in it. He stared at it, not feigning any sort of emotion as the loneliness set in. There was a button on the side of it. Once he pressed it, the speaker started producing feedback, and a weak voice came through. It was Melody’s.

“Hello, Simon. I know we never spoke much, but I’m very sorry you’re going to be alone here for so long. It isn’t fair, and it isn’t right. I can’t fix it, but I wanted to give you something so you might not have to feel so bad waiting all by yourself. Thank you for what you did for us,” said Melody’s voice in the speaker.

Her voice died away as it cycled through a few different whines and sputters of the machine trying to work. When she came back, she was singing. Simon sat and listened, and softly smiled. The buttons had a good interface on them, and they cycled through the tracks on the little radio. He went through a lot of what was on there. It was filled with poetry, with songs, with short stories. TS Eliot, Yeats, Shakespeare, Shelley, Blake, Poe, Nietzsche, so many wonderful works. It was beautiful. Ten years of travel. She had plenty of time to work on it.

A girl he’d hardly spoken to. A single act of kindness. A voice in the emptiness. Ten years to wait till he could see her, or any of them again.

Simon sat and wept alone in his spaceship. The SS Isolation. So appropriately named.

My fingers hurt so badly. My eyes sting, as I am scared to close them. My ears, all they hear are the vibrations of the lyre. The lyre is my life now. It makes up for almost nothing. The music. The notes, I feel like I can see them in the air. They swirl about me, adding to the cacophony of the garden expanse that surrounds me. The tranquility of the world does nothing to assuage my fear. It only serves to make it all the worse. Because my music simply cannot meld with this world. It is supposed to add to everything. It is supposed to be the light serenity that speaks to the undercurrent of existence. All the world is a song, but mine is off. Mine ruins the solemnity of creation.

As the blood comes from my fingers, the sunlight beats down on me and dries out my soul all the more. The man watching me, he lies in the treeline and he smiles. He smiles because I fail. I know that. I can feel that smirk down in my being. I cannot take it anymore. I know what it will mean. My anger, my hatred instead bears down and I push the instrument over. My lyre. I hope it will break, but it will not.

When the music stops, my mind swirls again. I am hurt. I see every single bit of my mistakes slamming down on me. The memories. I know exactly what they are. My mind. It could never recollect a single thing before. And yet, every bit of my existence plays out before me as if it is a performance. I find it humorous, because that is what I must allow myself to think at a time like this.

I just want to play my music. But, I am so sick of hearing it, of hearing every single mistake and foolish notion cover my senses. I am sick of failure. I make myself ill. And the man over there makes me worse. He laughs as he rises from the treeline. The sun seems to reject him as he walks into the light. Even it does not want to look at him. A cloud perfectly follows his path, and settles on me as he stops in front of my lyre.

“You didn’t break it this time,” he said.

“I did my best,” I said.

“Pick it up,” he said.

“No. Not again.”

“You still believe this up to interpretation? Sit there with yourself for as long as you like. Once you decide to crawl back down into your gutter, things will get better. It will not make any difference, either way.”

I look up at him. Trying to focus on his face is nearly impossible as the faces of my past shift through my vision. They all fade quickly, as the smirk of my shadowy companion fills the entirety of the frame of my mind.

“Why won’t you just let me go?” I said.

“You’ve been let go, before. This is far better than where you had been, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think I miss it now.”

“You wouldn’t if you saw it again.”

“Please, go away.”

“Enjoy the difference that makes,” he said as he vanished.

And he is right. It will not make a difference. I could smash this lyre into a million pieces. I could break my hands on the ground, on the trees all around me. I could drown myself in the lake. It would change nothing. I must finish this. This music must be done. My desires change nothing in any way that matters, or is important. It is funny the freedom that hopelessness provides, even at a time like this.

Because how long have I been here? A month, a year? How many years? Five, ten, a hundred? Does it matter? Have I even been here a day? Is the music done?

No, the music is not done. No, the music will never be done. No, I will never be released. Release is something that is not meant for the cursed and the damned. Release is there for those who deserve it, for those who have earned it. I have not earned it yet. When will I? When can I? Earning something. The very meaning of it slips from my thoughts as the guilt and fear rush over me like a waterfall, crashing and eroding the rocks underneath its path. It eats away at my soul, and makes me hollow, except for the pain that it fills me with. The feeling surrounds me, makes me dizzy and lifts me up. My head, it vibrates. My head, it is hot, it is cold, it is on fire, it is up in the clouds. I remember everything, I know nothing. The tears flow from my face, and they burn my skin. Somewhere, I feel something laughing at me.

I pick my instrument back up. It has changed again. The enormity of my lyre has transformed to the smaller beauty of a violin. The bow is in my other hand. I don’t know how to play this instrument either. Something has to relieve my soul from the depths, so I drag the bow across the strings and pray. Broken notes dance jaggedly around me, and the space I inhabit. If there was anything close to me, it would close its ears. I wish I could.

Slowly, a melody picks up. Somehow, I am fortunate enough to make some sort of sense from the foreign object. I have gotten something from it, as I have done with several others in my horrendous time upon this plain. And that will continue. Simply. Terribly. Maybe forever.

I lose my nerve as the music continues. I can never continue it for as long as I would like. Slowly, I psyche myself out. Slowly, the beauty fades away once again.

The sun, too, sets on the horizon. I can’t see the gorgeous vista around me. I feel like it is there. Maybe it is not. Perhaps I am in a desert wasteland. I am certainly the only living thing here. My violin sparks into a flame, and I throw it to the ground. The fire bursts forth, erupting upward and nearly engulfing me in its heat. I see the man’s face in the fire. He is laughing. He is so happy. I throw my face on the dirt, angry once again at the unseen hand of fate that chooses to destroy me without even looking me in the face. No, I must simply be satisfied knowing I will never complete my task.

Far away, a small light emanates from the surrounding darkness. I cannot see it for what it is, but a song of sorrow fills the void. It gets nearer and nearer to me. The notes surround me, almost tangible. The light takes up the plain black sky and fills the night with constellations of all magnitudes. The sheer visibility of everything, the sheer magnitude of it all fills me with hope.

Hope? Did I just feel that within me again?

Yes, I feel that hope swell inside me against all such likelihood. The hope, it is there. And with that, I look deep into the flame that still rages in front of me and reach within. It sears my skin as my tears did. I take out of it a sheer, level surface. A singular drum turns into a whole set, as I beat upon the tightened skins to begin the symphony anew. This mixes with the distant song, and changes the world around me into something joyous. The field, or the blackness and void of the desert, begins to disappear to make way for a cavernous wooden hall. The place is so empty, so dull, so dark. It is man-made horror, devoid of nature’s perfect touch. I am in one small corner of an empty chamber, so large I cannot see the ceiling.

This does not stop me. It will not. I keep playing. I beat upon every single one of those drums, and I produce a rhythm I have never heard before. I certainly thought such a sound was impossible for me to conjure up. When the light of my distant muse re-ignites the room, I see only one man out among a crowd of chairs. He claps in mockery.

“See? You were much more capable than you gave yourself credit for,” he said. “Perhaps you have just been too hard on yourself? You don’t need these hand-outs. Instruments? Those are just a handicap, are they not?”

The drums disappear from my sight. I am now playing nothing, and the far off tune begins to soften and die as well. I am left at another impasse. I cannot quit now, though. How can I, when victory is the only thing I can hope for? I will not return to my field, even if I am cursed on this stage to simply feed the vanity of the ugly creature for all eternity. At the very least, it is a purpose that I can serve.

Out of the wreckage of my drums, and the destroyed fire, I take scraps and begin to craft. Nothing forms for me simply this time. Now, it takes concerted effort on my part. I make my instrument. I make it wholly. It is not perfect. It looks like a fool’s guitar. But, it plays. And the music continues.

Once the melody begins again, I hear the faintest whisper of the voice. The comfort it provides sends tears down my face again. Tears that do not burn. For the first time, the man looks unhappy. He rises from his chair, heading for the stage. This does nothing to deter me or my act. It crawls onto my platform, and stares at me. I will not let it intimidate me, but its smile returns.

It passes by. It grows in stature, becoming less and less human with every step. He grabs the huge curtain behind me, and pulls it towards me. As it is dragged, it becomes a huge organ, covering the entirety of the stage. As it finishes its metamorphosis, my guitar shrinks and disappears. The creature, now having grown truly grotesque and frightful to look upon, simply waves me toward the huge machine.

I do not know how to play this either.

But, I do my best. I run up to it, and begin the melody again. Like before, my muse’s song is lost in the cacophony. It is there for me less and less. But, that will not stop me. I keep playing, and playing. My fingers hurt so bad. My legs burn, as does the air in my lungs. I am running out of stamina. I run all across the stage, expecting the next key that I have to hit, at just the right time. Otherwise, the whole song would be wrong. It is all I can do to not fall down on my knees and beg that creature to stop everything now. I would take returning to my previous state, even if I cannot entirely remember what that was. I can only vaguely remember it ending. But not the pain. That has mysteriously continued.

I will not stop, not as I did before. Instead, I look up at the beast in front of me.

“You have not beaten me, monster. I have fought, and I have played. I have given my all to this, and I will keep doing it until it kills me. This makes little difference. I cannot complete this symphony. I know that, and you know that. Every logical reason demands me to surrender. To surrender to this world, to surrender to you. I will not do it. I will keep playing. I will do it until my hands are broken, and I cannot walk. I will do it until I cannot process my thoughts, until my emotions are gone, and until I do not even know who I am anymore. No, I cannot complete this symphony on my own. But I do not give in to you. That is my promise. Because you will not win this day with breath still in my lungs.”

I play again. For hours, I play. For days. For years. And though the creature gets angrier, my place does not change. Nothing changes. Nothing but the song changes. Because something grows louder, even though I do not know what it is. Because it is not me. It cannot be, for my will weakens with every passing moment. But it does grow stronger, and I see it for what it is. The song of my distant companion rises again. This song is not just for me. It is for everything.

The light finally comes closer and closer as my playing begins to falter. I fall more and more away from my organ as the singing grows louder. The light emanates, it clouds the entirety of my being. I feel a bit of peace for the first time. The presence of the glow shortens the ginormous organ I am forced to play. For the first time, it is a manageable size. Now, I can play. The beast shrinks in response to the light. It grows angrier as the light helps me, but it is as helpless as I am to stop anything.

The organ. It is so much smaller, but still not small enough.

“I still cannot complete this,” I said to the light as it hovered above me.

“Would you like some help?” it said.

“Yes.”

A rather unremarkable man steps from the light, and sits down next to me at the organ. And we begin to play. He fills in all the notes that I cannot hit. He picks up every bit of slack from me. He aids me in every way. Along with the singing of my shining savior, harmony reigns, and the creature shies away in fear.

“Back,” said the man, never losing his rhythm for a second. “The song is complete. You have no claim on this man. Crawl back into your hole.”

The beast was called many things at that moment, and took many forms as it was pushed into its shadows. Perhaps I misheard. The caterwauling wail that it produced as it ran off served to interrupt the rhythm only momentarily, for the song continued on even though we had all stopped our playing.

The man hugged me as we rose from our bench. The organ was gone. The light had disappeared as well. Even the stage darkened, as only the curtain remained visible.

“You have done well,” said the man.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “You have done much for me, and came in my hour of need.”

“It is not the first time I have done such a thing, and it will not be the last.”

“Is the song over?”

“Yours is.”

“Will there be another?”

“There always is. That is what makes the score so glorious.” He smiled wide as he said this to me. He went over to the curtain, and opened it slightly. Bright lights emanated from it, shining across the stage. The light. I could feel it across my whole being. It was so familiar. It took away all that remained in my head, all the doubt and worry. It relieved the pressure and the pain. It took from me every bad memory. It made me see my life anew. It was a wonderful thing to behold, even when looking upon the bad. The dreariest parts of existence took on a new and wonderful meaning never before considered. I felt true joy.

“Now, see what lies beyond. See what there is after the song is finished.”

“I know I do, son,” said the Clockmaker.

“I am not your son, sir. I am a peacekeeping officer.”

“I am aware.”

“City Hall says they need you to come back right now.”

“I know. They always need me,” said the Clockmaker. He looks down at his weathered hands. They’re torn apart by age, by time. There are so many years on him.

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” said the Clockmaker.

“Yes, sir. We can’t leave them waiting,” said the officer.

“I can. They cannot do anything without me.”

“Nobody knows, sir. Nobody knows.”

“Yes. The clocks are off. No one knows what to do.”

“No one knows the time.”

“That’s what I said.”

The Clockmaker sighs as he brings out his pocket watch. He had spent the morning feeding the ducks, for once not stuck on his watches. When he looks at it now he sees all of them. The internal mechanisms, the cogs, the gears, all working in perfect harmony. Yes, he knew the time. He was the one expected to keep up with it. No one else, though.

“I didn’t think I’d be gone so long. Not long enough to be missed, anyway,” said the Clockmaker.

“Sir, you’ve been missing four days,” said the officer.

“Four days?” The Clockmaker put his watch away and rubbed his eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles surrounding them. So much had already been lost. And more would come. “Time flies when you don’t know it’s passing.”

“They said I had to get you back right away. If you would just come with me…” said the officer.

“I’m not going anywhere, son.”

“But if you don’t… Nothing will get fixed. We can’t do it ourselves.”

“No, you can’t do anything by yourselves.”

“Sir, everyone is…”

“I know. Nobody knows what time it is.”

He gets up off the bench, and walks over to the pond. It is still. A cool morning brought a mist that rose from the surface. The ducks lazily collect the bread that the Clockmaker has thrown to them. They are unaware of his existence. His reflection looks back at him clearly. The lines, the age, they are all over his face.

“Do you know how much time we lose?” said the Clockmaker.

“We can’t lose any now, sir. The clock’s not running.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not passing. No, it’s ticking by right now. Every second, every hour, every day. We spin, and we go around that sun. And it changes. Everything. No matter what we do.”

“We’re not supposed to do anything about it. We abide by our time.”

“Yes, we do. Because it will pass either way. And we will change. You will change, I will change. It is inevitable.”

“Yes, sir. We want change.”

“We change whether we want to or not. And life will pass us by. Here we are, making little machines to watch the time pass, until it is all over.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t, son. It is okay. That is my job.”

“Yes, sir. We all have jobs.”

“Yes, and how lucky we are for that.” The Clockmaker walks once again across the park, followed by the officer. The day is starting in full now. The mist clears, and the sun rises above the horizon of the city. Another day has begun in earnest.

“My job is all I have. That is all that is left of me. You take it, and what is there? No longer am I a son, no more a student, long since have I been a friend, and no, not a husband either. I am not even a father anymore, for my children have no need of me. Except, of course, to keep their world running.”

“And it is not.”

“No, it is not.”

Outside the gates, there are accidents all over the streets. People have crashed into each other, stores have been ransacked, fights and fires break out all over downtown. No one had to go to work this morning. No one could. The Clock Tower did not ring, did not send anyone on their way.

“It takes so little to rebel. Order is such a cruel illusion.”

The Clockmaker looks once again at his pocket watch as he clicks it open. He smashes it against the fence surrounding the park, and leaves it lying there.

“Come on, son. I have to go back to work. I just needed a moment’s rest,” said the Clockmaker.

That’s life, or so they say. That’s part of the deal, part of the promise. We’re all along for the ride. The guy next to you in the subway, the woman in front of you on the escalator. Every single person you’ve seen and met.

They’ve probably all felt like George Bailey. I would like to think that this man, this archetypal image, represents all of us. Every human being goes through this struggle. We are looking for that purpose, that drive, that thing that will give us a reason to live.

It doesn’t ever have to be a big push. Sometimes we all just want a little something that will keep us going. We are all so often craving such needs and necessities, that at the end of the day we’ll accept even the smallest re-assurance.

What would this world be like without us? Look deep within you, and you will know you’ve thought of such an eventuality. We’ve all gone down into that pit, and if we were lucky we came out of it. But, it was never easy. That’s what made it worthwhile.

The sad and unfortunate part is that we never have an angel named Clarence to help us along the way. We may have something looking out for us, but it is nothing so obvious as a silly little man looking for his wings. Unfortunately, our help is often more vague and immaterial.

No one gets the luxury of a definitive view of their life. No one will step in to point out what it was we did wrong, or what it is that we need to do right. Sure, there will be plenty of opinions along the way, but nothing that you can count on as gospel.

Sometimes, doing the right thing doesn’t help. We need to know that, we need to take some sort of solace in that. You can do all the right things. You can make all the right decisions. You can take the challenge that life has laid out for you, look it straight in the eye, and fulfill it to the full extent of your being. But then, you’ll be left sitting there with $8,000 that you can’t find, and prison as your only reward for a life well lived.

What is most important, is that we see that doing the right thing doesn’t mean we get to live the life we choose. Yes, we want to make our lives mean something, but quite often that doesn’t mean we’re living in peaceful bliss.

We all have dreams. George Bailey wanted to do so much. He wanted to travel, to explore, to see the world. Did he get to do it? No, he did not. Think about everything that you have never gotten the chance to do. Think about all the dreams that you hold onto, all the hope that keeps you going day after day.

That’s the hope that you’ll never get to fulfill. But, it will keep you going. That is why you don’t get to satisfy it, because what good would that do for you if you got what you were looking for? Sometimes, God can’t let you have what you want more than anything else. Being angry about this solves nothing, getting upset and sorrowful doesn’t change the outcome, refusing to accept it doesn’t matter one bit. That’s life. You don’t get to bargain with it.

Yes, I wish that wasn’t the case. Refer to previous sentences if you wonder what that wish is going to get me. George Bailey did what was right. He was there for his family, his friends, his town. He helped people who couldn’t help themselves, and he did it all while sacrificing his own well-being. No one is asked for any more or less.

“Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.” - John 15:13

We all struggle with the obstacles in our path. That is the point of them. If they weren’t a struggle, then everything would be freely given to us and we would earn nothing. I suppose this speaks to the difficult wisdom that has been learned over the years by many people. We all have to discover it on our own, just like we have to do everything else.

But no, that’s a falsehood in and of itself. We don’t have to do everything alone. We can’t. Yes, at the end of the day our personal journey and responsibility lies within us (this world would be better if more people recognized just that). This does not mean we are meant to be by ourselves or lonely in the achievement of such things.

We are surrounded by people, even if we have no people of our own. They are everywhere. We cannot ignore that, cannot try to escape into our little bubbles and reject the world before us. Doing so will only make us bitter, resentful, and selfish. Thinking that we are the centers of our little universe and are only subject to the whims of ourselves creates enmity between us and our fellow man. Even isolated we will encounter others. It is the way we choose to live that decides if we will help them or hinder them. If we choose to live selfishly, we serve only to burden collective humanity and infringe upon society.

This is what George gets to see at the end. No, he never got to go exploring, but he did help a lot of people along the way. We all like to think that down at the center of their beings, people are essentially good and grateful. That is not always the case. We do not live in a movie. Every now and then, we can be surprised, though.

So, the entire town comes to the aid of George Bailey, and lifts him out of the melancholic journey he forces upon himself by giving in to his hopelessness. He pulls himself up from it after he grapples with the true shadow of his being, by looking at the world without him in it. He takes on the epic and thankless task of life itself, and comes out victorious if not unscathed. He gets his reward for a job well done.

We’re all George Bailey. We all work, and sacrifice. We so often see nothing for it. We want examples of how much we mean to others, want to see that our lives are making an impact. But we very often do not get it. And that is okay.

There are small examples that we are blessed with, and we have to make due with that. A simple word of kindness can be our reward. Someone stopping to tell you that you did a good job can speak volumes. It is a marvel to see people break through their own layers of social protection. It means so much, and this can become a better reward than anything else we could hope for.

The ending adds to the mythic structure of a movie such as this. For it to be so down to earth, so realistic, it leans itself into a mythology of sorts. And when I say this, I do not just speak of angels, for they are out there in some form whether we see them or not.

No, when I say mythic structure, I mean a specified example and acknowledgment of the effects our actions cause. George Bailey is directly gifted something for what he did. He sacrificed his whole life, and the people which he gave his life to reward him. This is a definitive view of what our lives will come to should we live correctly. It is definitive, if not factual.

Our gifts are subtle, if noticeable at all. Yes, for many people miraculous things happen. They are gifted beyond expectation. It does happen. But it does not happen to everyone.

The rest of us will work and toil and try to see the good in what we do without having it be so obvious. But it is there. Sometimes we have to look past the bad, the evil, the suffering we encounter along the way. Should we choose to do that, should we choose to never give up in the face of adversity and move forwards, we too get our reward. Effort is rewarded, and is something worthy of a reward. It is better to do something rather than nothing.

It is harder to see our gifts, but they are given nonetheless.

We go above and beyond at work. No one pays attention. But the business stays successful. And maybe even one person there notices and tries to clean up their act a little.

We do something nice for someone on the street. They are given a kindness they do not often get. It might give them a little hope in humanity. They may hang on a little longer just because of that.

We help at our local church. Everyone is expected to work, but maybe you go above and beyond. One day, someone may choose to believe or attend because they see you have a devotion that is true and devoid of hypocrisy.

You love your spouse unconditionally, and they love you. Others see that devotion and let it influence the way they treat their partner. Others see it and appreciate love and peace as something that is real.

Your child is born and grows. Every step is difficult, and is filled with pain. They fight you all the way. But if you do it right, you’ve added another soul that can enrich society in their own way.

These are things you may never see. These are things you may never know. These are things that do not always benefit you. But they are there. Life here on this planet is perpetuated a little longer, and maybe a couple more people are kind to each other. We can get our $8,000 in the long run, even if we don’t get it all at once.

No, there’s no big moment where we get to notice all this in our lives. No crescendo that ends in an inspiring song. Nonetheless, people want to be around others that are good. People appreciate goodness even if they don’t want to. You can be appreciated and loved because of who you are, what you do, and the kind of person you are. There is a peace that comes with that which no physical earthly reward could possibly match. If you do not have the internal capacity to appreciate such gifts, then they would mean nothing to you anyway.

George Bailey comes away with the reward for his difficult journey. He comes back from his pain with a renewed sense of self, with all of his conflicting issues resolved within him. He is now a more complete person, as we all seek to be. His friends are there, his family, his wife. His life is what he needed. He looked and aimed in the wrong place, but he was lucky enough to be corrected. He was lucky to be reminded that he was not truly alone.

We all have people that will be there when the times get hard and we need a reminder of why we bother to do anything at all. They are there to make things easier if we simply appreciate that they are there with us. This life should not be led alone. George Bailey got his big reward, but we have to get by with the small ones. We need that reminder that there is a reason we have friends who are at least willing to listen to us when the unrelenting struggle against life causes us pain.

Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.

“Am I supposed to be scared?” said Solomon to the Spirit. A Spirit had taken him all through time, revisiting long lost memories, and now seeing what the future would hold. It was a familiar tale, seeing your life and facing your mistakes.

But Solomon was not impressed.

“Yes, I will die. I will be cold and alone in the ground, not loved, not missed, and not cared for. That is everyone’s story, that is how they all end. The only lie is the bits in between where we pretend we’re not scared and alone, and hang on to each other like frightened animals so we can act like we’re not all going down into this same pit to feed the worms,” said Solomon Moore.

“No,” said the Spirit. It was the first word it had spoken. Before, it simply glared with its grueling presence, inevitable as the grave before them both.

“Now you choose to speak to me, Spirit? Your other compatriots received nothing from me, though they said much. You hoped with your silence to intimidate me, but I care little for such crude tactics. What could you possibly have for me that I have not seen? My path is chosen. I made my mind up long ago. The hell of my world was chosen for me, by me, and no one else may lay claim to it,” said Solomon.

“You have chosen your hell? Is that so?”

The wind rose up from behind the Spirit, and then it vanished into the ether. The old miser held his ground as his vision was clouded and his hearing was blotted out by the furious sound of the gale force all around him.

“Do not attempt once more to frighten me, Spirit!” said Solomon. “I shall own my death and my life. Leave me to my misery.”

He lost his footing and was taken by the wind, falling down into his grave. The coffin buckled under his weight. As he rose, something grasped him. Here was his final resting place, if that contemptible Spirit was to be believed. But not yet, so why could he not leave?

The earth opened up below him, and he plummeted into the dark chasm of the world below. Down he fell, screaming into the abyss all around. Everything was gone. For the first time in his life, the old miser found what it was like to feel nothing.

Crashing to the ground, he looked around in perpetual fear, worsened because his feeling was not as it should be. That most primal of emotions was dulled just like everything else.

“It is all gone, isn’t it?” said a harsh, cold voice in the void.

“Where are we? Who said that?” said The Miser.

“You do not recognize me? You have seen me all night,” said the voice. As it got closer, the old miser’s vision cleared slightly. He could see the emptiness all around him, filled only with the formless black void. It was nothingness, the epitome of absence. Absence of the heart, the soul. There was no heat, there was no cold, there was no comfort.

As The Voice came closer, Solomon could see that it was the Spirit that had plagued him since the early hours of his evening. Making its way across the field, it took many forms, all that were seen in the hours before. The past, the present, and the future. The hooded figure transformed again as it approached him, staring intently into his eyes, towering over him. Its cloak began to glow and change, not even remotely recognizable in any way to what a human being had been, or could be. It exemplified the darkness and repelled it all at once. It was unknown, and indescribable. A Spirit in the truest sense of the word.

“Where have you brought me now, Spirit?” said Solomon. “I do not… I cannot… Where are we?

“You seem to have lost your bravado. Do you not recognize it? I thought you had known it all your life? You have chosen this, after all. You expected us to end this night with the end of your life, and not show you what would be after? This is the truth of what is to come for you,” said the Spirit.

“Nothing lies beyond the grave”, said Solomon. His tone in no way gave a hint that he believed what he said.

“Then close your eyes and pray if you will.”

“I cannot feel anything. If we are where you say we are, am I not supposed to be punished? Where is the fire, where is the torment? If I am to be here, I will not be denied my fabled promises.”

“Stubborn to the end, you foolish old man. The punishment is over once you are here. Those who remain have received everything that they sought and chose in their sad existence. There is no need to punish when there is nothing left to receive it.”

The light of the Spirit shone forward, and the old miser saw another vision lying in the distance. He was afraid to go further, but the Spirit pushed him on. At the end of their path, a mirror image of Solomon Moore faced them. But it was not as he should have been. It was a visage, a mirage. It was like the Spirit itself, moving and flowing with the morphing shadows all around. And there was nothing in its eyes, everything that had once been Solomon Moore was long gone in this shadowy figure.

“This is what is promised to you at the end of your road. This is the culmination of your life, of your desires. This is your victory, this is your reward. Try to speak to it, and you will find there is nothing. It is as empty as the world around it. And that is how it will be, forever and ever. Joy, a distant memory. Laughter, none can be heard here. Pain is gone forever, but so is pleasure. Even tragedy is a gift not to be found. All the worst emotions of your existence would be the greatest boon to a poor spirit forced to wander here for all eternity.”

The miser had nothing to say. He simply stared at himself.

“What lies there in the distance, Spirit?” Far away was the cruelty of an endless light display. It was the reflected aurora of an unseen land. The darkness seemed to encompass it, but it appeared there like a dream through the fog nonetheless.

“Those here shall never know. It is the choice that they will not make, because they made their minds up a very long time ago. The alternative will always be there, regardless of their foolishness. For those with the smallest remnant of themselves still not burned away by the everlasting fire, they can look over there and feel a glint of their souls that they could have again if they would only try. There is hope over the horizon, as there always is.”

“Then why will this fool not go!?” said the miser as he looked at his spirit self. “Why do you not just turn around and move? It is there for you. Go. Go and see.”

His destroyed soul said nothing, it simply stared at him.

“The hell of your own world was chosen for you and you alone. No one shall take that from you,” said the Spirit.

The Old Miser felt himself become that thing that he looked at. He felt hollow and empty, and all he had been was gone. The wind picked up again, and blew him away as the Spirit laughed in nefarious victory. Solomon Moore ended his existence there in that dark field that he made for himself.

A bell chimed midnight, and Solomon woke up with a start. He had fallen asleep counting his money, his fire having long gone out beside him. He was pulled away from his ghost-like existence, and brought back into the land of the living.

Upon looking at a nearby mirror, he saw that he was not as old as he’d once felt. Having felt so truly the age upon his bones, he found that it was simply a vision as he was swept through time, acclimating to each passing age the Spirit brought him to. He’d been thrown through so many memories and reflections of what his life would lead him towards, that he’d practically lost himself. But he knew it was all true, knew it was not just a dream.

Carolers sang outside. Silent Night rang through the streets, and a light snow cascaded from the sky. Solomon began to cry, looking at his face in the mirror. His life was not gone, and it was not too late. The fate that he foresaw was not written in stone.

Only now he never realized just how much he enjoyed the life that he led. Happiness, peace, hurt, love. Anything and everything, he let himself feel it all. It is only once you feel the absence of such things that you can truly enjoy what they have to offer.

Christmas Day. The feeling of that time, the truth of it. The Spirit was gone from his sight, but now it was all around him, he could feel it in his very being. Good will towards men, this was real whether he’d ever wanted to admit it.

With so much time still ahead of him, he knew miracles were possible. And they could only happen on a day like this.

Sometimes, it is because they must. Sometimes, it is because everything is against them. Sometimes, they are just unlucky.

Think of all the greatest heroes you’ve seen and known. Any book you’ve read, any movie you’ve watched, any game you’ve played. Plenty of times, you’ve seen the hero fall. Whether they died, or failed, or had to give up. Either way, it always ended the same.

Sherlock Holmes plummeted from Reichenbach Falls with Moriarty.

King Arthur fell with his son, whisked away to Avalon until he’d be needed again.

Thor died with Jormungandr.

Heracles was poisoned by one of his many loves.

Superman fought Doomsday to his last breath.

Jesus died on the cross.

And so on.

Yes, while only one of those really happened, they all still speak to something deeper. The hero myth tells us something about ourselves. (And when I say myth, I do not mean untrue, for mythology at its best is far more than truth) We are all striving to get through the difficulties of our lives. We all want to defeat the dragon, and all the foes standing in our way. We are all aided on our journeys. We all want to give up sometimes. We all know that there’s something at the end of the road worth fighting for. At least, we should.

What is important to the hero’s fall, is that it always happens for a reason. Something comes from it. Sometimes they get to come back again, or the world is saved because of what they did. Effort is rewarded no matter how dreary the path may look. That is what has to be remembered.

But now, heroism means something different. Heroism for many is something to be skeptical of. So often, we now choose to look critically upon those that we lift up. Do not get me wrong, in real life there is often plenty reason to suspect those who claim to help us of wrongdoing, especially if those people were elected.

No, I am referring to our stories. That is where the problem lies. If we do not believe in the dream of heroism, then we cannot exemplify those truths in our own lives. Anyone reading this has consumed some kind of fiction lately where the hero was made to be the bad guy, or at least had his motives questioned. It is easy to find something like this, where the so-called hero was made out to be worse than the villain they were fighting. Along with this, said villain was usually considered the misunderstood hero of the situation. The desire to reverse our naturally viewed understanding of reality permeates all that we see and hear. This is the problem I am addressing.

We need heroes. We need something to believe in, because we need to believe we are capable in our own lives. We are all the heroes of our own stories. That is why classical tales of myth appeal to us. All great heroes go through their lives, and they forge their path through the times of horror and terror they must go through. We all do that. That is the commonality of the human experience.

When we pervert that, we take something away from ourselves. We cannot be suspect of everything, not when it comes to our dreams. There is a purity that lies in stories. There is a desire that goes further than fact, further than truth, beyond understanding.

It is hard to live in this postmodern, cynical world and not want to extend that view to everything. Yes, there is horror everywhere. Yes, people are not to be trusted. Yes, everything must be questioned.

When we look for answers, we frequently see that there is an objective experience that everyone goes through. Life is hard, but there are some things that keep us going. There are some things that give us confidence, make us happy, that make us feel good about our lives. There is quite often a need to remember that our lives are worth living. Instead, we get stories that try to make us question that core concept.

Many believe that everything is up to interpretation, and that we actually misunderstand the world we live in. There are some things that can always be understood. There is good, there is evil. We should strive towards what is good, because evil will always be knocking at our door as it tries to demolish our lives. Shouldn’t we be ready for it?

No matter how you wish to view the world, we all live in it. There are things we go through at every stage. A hero can be viewed as flawed, for we all are. But at the end of the day, heroes do what is right. They face the world head on, and do not shrink back from it. They do not need to doubt their motives, because we cannot doubt that our lives are worth fighting for. We fight with ourselves, we fight with society, we fight with others. Our world is full of conflict, endlessly leading to tragedy and travails all throughout. The ups and downs are what make it worth living. We should not be searching for reasons to make it harder.

This is what I speak of when I talk of The Hero’s Fall. I do not relish the term, I do not take joy from it. I am not satisfied that such a thing has happened, but it needs to be recognized nonetheless. The heroes have not truly fallen, but they have in our eyes. We look down upon them now, and think that we are beyond such things. But we never are. The hero has not fallen, we have.

I desire in this platform to reclaim a little of what I feel has been lost. I will present it in a number of different ways. Sometimes it will be through essays like this, sometimes through short stories, or maybe even through long form narratives. It will touch on whatever I feel is calling to me in the moment. I can’t promise consistency, but I can promise I’ll always be genuine.

Carl Jung, an immensely important psychiatrist whose ideas shaped a lot of this essay, summed all of this up succinctly in one of my favorite quotes of his.

He said, “Everybody acts out a myth, but very few people know what their myth is. And you should know what your myth is because it might be a tragedy and maybe you don’t want it to be.”

We are all living myths. We should not be ashamed to be the heroes of those myths.