They say the pain is heart-wrenching. That it rips you apart. It’s true. There’s nothing quite like it, you know. Knowledge, information. It is a beautiful thing. But as every cloud has a silver lining, every angel has a darkside. Every angel will tear you down should you elevate it to such a position.
There are other things of course. Other things that could, and to be frank, should take your mind. But they don’t. They can’t. No matter how hard you fight for them, defeat is always the victor.
It would be so much easier.
Falling. It’s like falling, in a way. The same feeling of weightlessness. The same headache. The same uselessness in your actions. But this is different, because you’re not free-falling, not even close. There is a rope attached to you. Attached to your heart. And the further you let yourself fall, the harder the rope pulls. THe more heart-wrenching the pain becomes.
Why does it have to be you of all people? You’re almost enigmatic, and yet the secret of your answer is so pathetically transpired. Some take them for a ride. But there has been no ride at all. The rollercoaster never even began, and yet I somehow managed to crash.
It would be so much easier.
“If only one of us had the guts tonight.”
He had been repeating this phrase to himself all day, in preparation, expectation, of what was over the hill. It was difficult, living like this. he didn’t really know what to expect. The chance had come. His chance. He had to make it his own, step into it as he would his favourite old shoes. But he was terrified. She was like him, and yet so different. Was it too much? Too soon? Too little? Too late? The questions were just one of many hinderances, many flaws, to this grand plan of his.
But did he even have a plan? Sure he had tonight, but what of beyond? And even before that, tonight? Was it a meeting, social gathering, or something more? He shivered, part cold, part fear.
He was overreacting, he knew that. That’s all it was, surely. Wasn’t it? Could it be more? And if so, what? And if he was overreacting, perhaps it was good to. Maybe it would help, help make sure that he covered everything, forgot nothing. That way he would be sure of his movements, would be safe. If the theory was right, that is. Which it might not be. The indecision only further crippled him and his efforts. He could scarcely afford the indecision he was already contending with, let alone further reinforcements.
“If only one of us had the guts tonight.”
Tonight, not now. The indecision won the war.
The wind was barreling through his hair, snatching at his eyes in the way that pickpockets nabbed purses on the Main Street. it all seemed such a remote memory to him now, unimportant and immaterial. He looked only toward the distant sky, full of nothing. Her sublime blue spoke to him; the bluest blue ever, and she regaled him with folklore of long-gone days, of vicious beasts and of violent weather.
He could scarcely imagine what must be happening back home. His mother would doubtless be frantically searching the entire town for him. His father would have realised what he had done, forgotten to tell his mother, and would have made himself some coffee in way of congratulations. He was good like that.
A buzzing sound broke him from his preoccupation. Arthur’s eyes darted from the ground, and surveyed the area around him. The trees had disappeared, or at the very least, the green ones had. He was still a couple of hours away from the base of the mountains. There was no sign of any movement anywhere around him, at least that he could- wait. Could it be? A flower, smaller than small, stood on the ground roughly twenty metres from where he stood, and on it lay the most beautiful, most rare creature Arthur had ever laid eyes on. He counted it as his first great discovery. A bee.
For me, I am driven by two main philosophies, know more today about the world than I knew yesterday. And lessen the suffering of others. You’d be surprised how far that gets you.
-Neil Degrasse Tyson, in an AMA on reddit, responding to a young man who asked how to find motivation in life. (via fishingboatproceeds
)
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He had started planning. It was actually happening. by the end of the year he would have left this hell-hole, and would be gone on his adventure. He could scarcely contain his excitement. He wanted to go tonight. Desperately so. It would the perfect night for it. The air was cool, but not cold, and the weather was fine. The Moon would shining superbly, and from his window he could see for nearly a hundred metres. There would be enough stars out for him to be able to find his way to the northwest mountains, and on to the Other Place beyond. He could see the mountains from his place at his desk, illuminated a brilliant red by the slowly setting sun. They screamed out to him, seemingly longing for his presence.He found comfort in staring off at them, in surveying their every crack and crevice. His father had been telling him stories of his own travels to the Other Place since he had been a little boy, but his mother had always forbidden them to go. The mountains continued to scream at him, louder than ever, reverberating around his head.
Arthur began packing his bag.
“Shoot him.”
He hesitated again. The frustration in the instructors mind was becoming increasingly apparent.
“But he’s done nothing to me!” The battle between him and his instructor had just escalated, again. The foul war they’d created looked highly likely to claim its first victim. A poor, innocent, young man, as yet unaware of the immense danger his morning walk had placed him in. Henry shuddered at the thought that this man’s life, nay, his murder, would be called ‘training’ by the instructor. Heck, it was already called training.
“It’s disgusting,” he thought. The safety catch was released. “He’s done nothing to harm me.” He cocked the gun. “What about his family?” The man came up in his sights. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did this, if this man didn’t wake up tomorrow.”
“Good shot.”
General Relativity in 8 gifs
This is cool.
The Trumpeter’s normal call hadn’t come today. Arthur got increasingly worried as he sped down to the barrels. As he entered the yard where they were piled high, a shudder ran down his spine. An enormous hole lay in the side of the pile, with some barrels scattered around the yard, and others still in the pile, torn in half. Arthur sporfled. He’d had a dream, months ago, that the Trumpeter would disappear one day. That was all he could remember, which was a shame because he’d been in a good mood for that entire day, and now didn’t have a clue why.
His father had taken him down to the barrels ever since he was very young, before he could walk even. Then, when his father had ‘grown out of it’, and he’d become old enough, Arthur had started coming down himself.. He enjoyed the intelligent conversation, for he felt like he was surrounded by idiots in the Town. The Townspeople rejected everything beyond their conservative existence, and that included everything from artistry to intelligence to the Other Place. The Trumpeter had told him about the Other Place. Mountains 10 kilometres high, and oceans 4 times as deep. Monsters with two, three heads. Men-shaped swordsmen with four arms. Trees 5 hundred metres tall. Sights more fantastic than his wildest dreams. And his dreams were wild. He’d just remembered his dream about the Trumpeter leaving, and that was the wildest he’d ever had.
