Many times in the life of my relationship, I’ve marveled the audacity of friends and family, who, coming before me, profess some secret they know of the partner of my heart. As if love were not the truest confessional! What knowledge do they have, of which love has left me benighted? Unlike them, I need no expression to sort out truth; it is bold before the eyes that love alone can open.
This is for them.
The Final Page
Before that day, on which the final page of the Book of Life was penned, the story was long. Already, it was bound in a rich purple cloth, with golden leaves seamless, and the merest satin ribbon, which flowed from the end, like a darling melody. To all but one, whose face was a shadow, the hero had settled his lots with lifelong fortune. His travels, though wide, had found him a place in the company of happy mediums. What more could he dream, that he did not already have? His gaze was bold, upon the spoils of his exploits. His smile set forth brilliance, in the guise of perfect contentment. But in his eye, something untold was stirring. Such an unnoticed thing, it was a tear! A tear not yet cried, nor of sadness, but of joy.
But the writer of this tale was taken with wishing. He had dreamt of the book, and in dreaming, he had seen it bound up and closed, upon a shelf, in a library, in a place he knew well.
For nights, he worried with longing, and left the book open. The final page glared up in the moonlight, like a mirror perfectly polished. With the tip of his pen, he stirred ripples upon ripples, in a well brimming with black ink. But he could not sleep, nor then could he wake beyond the opening of his eyes.
Upon the seventh night of his sleepless dreaming, a miraculous thing arose in his heart. It felt like a breeze from a faraway land; warm, as if it had blown for ages in a place of perpetual Summer. Soothing, it seemed to tempt him from a fear he had suffered unknowingly. Now it was a golden ablution, the tenderest liquesence, lapping upon him in waves upon waves. Now, the endless blooming of flowers, and the ecstasy of their perfume. He fell to the floor weeping, with his hand upon his chest. He mustn’t. He must. He must stay his heart, or else let it fly.
Spring rose fast through his body. When it came upon The Mind, whose cast was of stone, in the gray-crowned aspect of a mountain unmoved, it rode high to the peerless summit. And from that lofty height, glorious Spring brought forth water, and down the dusty sides. The trees burst forth verdure. The streams overflowed. And from deep within the mountain, came forth rumbling, then fire, endlessly cascading.
The writer heaved again upon the cold planks of his floor. For many moments, he could not rise. But at length, with ineffable longing in his soul, he roase a hand to the edge of his desk, and pulled himself up. He readied his pen to write what he felt. It would be long, if it would be at all, for his hand was all atremble, and he took pains to make it steady. For hours, he pecked upon pages, and sent them in shreds to the walls of his room. His heart was bursting. His mind was a flood. But inexorable sleep cared for neither, and it overtook him in place of the words he struggled to pen. He drifted upon his arm, still toiling upon a solitary sheet of parchment. The words blurred in his eyes, as the lids drew down, like shadows over the moon.
In the morning, he woke. His body felt lighter. Contentedly, he smelled the sweet air of flowers, from a field just beyond his door. He could hear the birds as they sung, and the streams as they flowed. Nothing looked as it had, but it was more beautiful, more vibrant. He smiled, as he gazed down upon his desk.
He saw the inkwell. It was empty to the barest emptiness. Pages lay beside it, in fits. But where was the ending? Surely, he had written it. Now it was gone, utterly gone.
His searches proved fruitless, though they lasted the day and deep into the night.
In the days and weeks following, much was made of the book he had written. It garnered honors universally. All who read it, spoke of it in rhapsodies. Its praise was undiminished. It was held in triumph, the sort of story that leaves its readers not wanting.
The writer smiled only half in amusement, when it was written of his hero, that his happiness was complete. What must it be like to have ends so contentedly?
He only just knew that imaginary happiness, but he could not share it. From time to time, he turned to thinking of the thief, who had robbed the world of a page they knew not existed. At length, he came to know the identity that had caused him such wonder. He knew it definitely. But knowing contented him, and he did not claim back what the shadow had taken. It was the thief’s alone to know, what others only fancied.
March 20, 2009 at 6:33 pm |
I am glad you addressed this issue. It is an important one; people can be so clueless sometimes. It is also brillant how the story addresses the problem. I wonder, if those friends when reading your entry will understand the truth underneath the story and how they play a part in the stolen page. Also, I must comment on your description of the book, what beautiful detail and it makes me want to go find a book like that to write in. It is a jewel worthy of the life story it holds. I like the way you describe the writer too. Sometimes it amazes me how everyone thinks writing is easy and can write a novel or a story. It is sweat and tears and looking at a blank page during writers block can be torture, you capture that feeling most wonderfully and I am glad for it. I know people will still come up to you to tell of some “secret” they think you do not know of, but that is there mistake, your heart and love does not make you blind and in the end they show their true colors most vividly.
March 22, 2009 at 12:41 am |
Mm…leaves me feeling both satisfied and melancholy. If I could articulate why, I’d write as wonderfully as you do! As it is, I will confine myself to feeling and admiring. Thanks for sharing.
March 23, 2009 at 10:11 pm |
Hello, Everyone,
Thank you kindly for your most heart-warming compliments to my writing! It sounds as if I’m in good company among friends for whom words are equally the experiences they describe: a “sumptuous” feast truly is sumptuous, by the delectable associations of the word itself.
If I had my way–perhaps I already do–I would spend all my time writing stories like this one. I love philosophy as much as the next guy, but it can’t hold a candle to the art of storytelling. Ideas without flourish, are tedious; but taken with circumstance and a character to live them, they become more than abstractions. They take place in the common dominion of our human condition.
We must relate to our world, if not by stories, than by facts. But what a terrible thing to know only the measure of a thing! To gaze upon the clouds, and call them cumulus? To speak of the blue sky, and reduce it to so many wavelengths and molecules? To dine on food, and count its calories. These are tragedies.
What appears before us, may be no more than the surface. That in which we lay trust, may prove a sleepless bed, and occasion will find us restless in our presumptiveness.
I wrote this story because I feel that all of us in our turns, suffer the misconception of our characters. People would rather assume they know us, than ask the question that would settle their doubts. We remain largely unknown, but to those in whom we confide our hearts and our minds.
But even these individuals, in whom we invest our self-knowledge, remain unknowing. How much would they miss if we did not betray ourselves? How much do we have to help them in knowing us?
In today’s world, people blame subtlety for all that we do not know. If in hints, we deal, then we are understood to be saboteurs of progress. Only those who state their cases explicitly, are thought to be understood.
How ironic! Those who speak directly, are perhaps least of all known, their lives reduced to the sparest profile of facts and figures.
If you want to know a person, listen to what they don’t say!
I hope that people realize the depth of our relationships beyond what they appear at their exteriors. We live such interior lives, always waiting to be discovered by someone with the bravery to ask the right questions.
March 23, 2009 at 10:56 pm |
Asking the right questions is important. I still miss our 20 questions, we were masters at it, no one can play it as well as we did. You are correct that a lot of people don’t look beyond the exteriors and where we truly live is interior. Perhaps humans are in truth very solitary and alone people who live around lots of other alone people.
March 23, 2009 at 11:27 pm |
Trying to have a conversation with someone who deals solely in facts is like trying to have a conversation with a walking, talking calculator. Some of the information is new to you, but it’s delivered in such a way that it’s instantly rendered unpalatable. This is coming from me, of course, an admitted math-phobe.
I wonder sometimes how much its really advisable to let other people know you. We carry facades for a reason, and honesty, even couched in beauty, can still choke you if it comes at you too fast, too often. Is it necessary to maintain some air of mystery in order to continue to capture the imagination? I’d argue yes.
March 25, 2009 at 4:54 am |
I have to admit when I went to the blog the other day and read the title sadness over took me and I thought you were stopping the blog. So happy to hear it was actually a new beginning. I am happy to say that I could really visualize what the character was doing as I read it and that is a great sign for me. I see how he looked around, how he climbed up his desk, how he wrote. It felt good to be with him. I hope I am one of those friends who ask questions, the right ones! Keep up the good writing. I am requesting the job of going on the road on your book tour!
March 25, 2009 at 5:26 am |
I turned off my blackberry and turned it back on 20 min later because I really had to say again how good it is to read something and be able to be there as the character or with the character or just vision the scene. It like when I read memiors of a gesha. I could viaualize the clothing and how awe inspiring it must have looked. Then I see the movie and go don’t see that detail. You gave me the detail. Thank you.
March 25, 2009 at 11:12 pm |
Hi, again!
Let us say of mystery, that in its absence, life is no more than a drawn-out ending. While yet it remains, every moment begins our story anew. Yet, as we grow, we let mystery pass from our lives, like shadows before a rising sun. We look back with fondness, upon the time when we knew less for dreaming, and sought less for keeping. We were shadows in that happy domain, and formless, and unafraid. We walked through walls, and saw around corners.
But now, we are adults, and we wrap our years around familiar things. We define ourselves more particularly. And our beings, from vast formlessness, shrink down to the minutest finitude.
The wrong question has but a single answer, and its fate is the fate of mystery dispelled. We open that door, into a room crammed with antiquities. And when he have done with reminding ourselves, then we long for the right question, to which no answer exists. It is a door that leads to another door, and then to another. Such questions but hint at a vastness beyond our knowing. Nor there, would we hope to know completely, that which holds the promise of lifelong adventure.
A true friend is someone who sees you through that door, and all the doors that follow.
March 31, 2009 at 6:50 am |
I totally agree with you about friends and them seeing you through the doors. Its all a journey and a true friend is on that journey with you through the high and low roads.