Songbook

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

From the point of origin to the point of demise, and the events between.

White space.


The typical analogy of a blank canvas, the nigh incomprehensible number of differing directions one could take – all depending on the formation of one’s human condition, each experience a vastly different one from the last – and the potential exhibits that could be granted creation as a result. The very fabric of the most wondrous concoctions known to man, both physical and ideological, all begin at a single shared point: nothing. The bittersweet irony of this shared beginning, a beginning that should be sufficient in uniting each and every one of us for the rest of our days, is of course that it is a Gemini – and the ending is its twin. All that comes from nothing, from the point of origin, returns to exactly that. Nothing.


It is what occurs in the meantime that gives definition to existence, naturally. A wave of colours across the canvas, the content between the lines on the pages, and the experiences seen here are once again very different for each individual. It is here that we become alienated from each other, if we are not cautious, and there are far too many different choices and paths for one to witness in their time. As such, it is wholly necessary to share with each other the experiences we have – this way we can all be enriched by the occurrences between the beginning and the end, even without directly taking part in each play.


Each line is unique, with unique characters, unique places and unique events. Each of us construct a verse on a daily basis, so long as we breathe, and in the end all of these verses shall come together to form a song with a previously unheard of title: the human race.


Time here is short and all pages come to an end. Every song has a final note, every story has a closing line. It is easy to become lost in the meaning of it all, in the fleeting moments that come and go before we can fully grasp what is unfolding in our midst, and as such it is easy to lose sight of the lines that we walk between. Sometime, these incidents are what guide us to something all the more poignant, something vastly unexpected. An event, a companion, an idea. Regardless of who or what, these moments are amongst the most gripping of all.


Take for instance he who dons dark formalities, an individual tossed into a tempest of minds and views, in which meaning was nigh impossible to grip. Also take for instance she who sports a cloak wrought from fine lines and a subtle grace that is on most occasions unseen in such an individual. The horror weaved from countless days and nights in the storm, and the poetry drawn from the grace of an entirely distant realm merge like waves in a much gentler ocean – a vast space, a place of abundance and the deepest colour.


Of course, though they stand aside one another in these fleeting times now, the page must always turn. Tomorrow always comes, regardless of the doings of man. In the end, oceans are parted by many things, from mountains and spires to continents boasting their own tales and happenings.

Even as time strides on, regardless of pace, there will always be the writings describing times in the old sea. The memories will remain even when the place returns to the point of origin.


White space.

 


Submitted: October 18, 2015

© Copyright 2021 LongDeadHerald. All rights reserved.

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