|A Salmagundi of Stories
Author: emptyword PM
An indiscriminate assortment of spiritual, philosophical, and entirely fictional drabbles, often with an unforgivable dash of literary pomposity. Drabble #2: Simplicity of Complexity. Ungrounded philosophical blather, questioning everything but the Truth.Rated: Fiction K - English - Spiritual/Mystery - Chapters: 2 - Words: 1,006 - Reviews: 1 - Updated: 06-02-08 - Published: 05-29-08 - id: 2524161
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A Salmagundi of Stories
By Lady E
Drabble #2: The Simplicity Of Complexity
Summary: Ungrounded philosophical blather, questioning every question but the Truth.
You tell me to be honest. What you don't know is that I am virtually always honest. I cannot speak a lie to save my life, to salvage my pride. I cannot utter a single falsification without being discovered, so I always keep to the truth. As close as possible. I am as honest as you could hope for in this world.
What gets me is how pointless honesty is. You think it grand; you think it ideal. But have you tried it before? Have you lived your life by it before? Do you understand what it means to seek the truth in all things every moment of your life? Do you understand...
Waking up each morning to the sunlight filtering through the curtains, telling yourself that your room is warm, smiling because you expect it to last, but not understanding why weather changes so quickly. Without warning. Why change at all? Why not preserve what's good?
Because warmth is good, right? Good. Warmth is, warmth is sun-kissed skin and softly whispered promises and golden, Frisbee-filled afternoons and tinkles of laughter that speak of happiness. But is warmth Good?
What is Good, then?
Most of my friends prefer the night. It bewilders me, I who love the sun. They speak of stars and coolness and shadows and complexities. I do not understand. But there you have it. To them, night is Good. Is it not?
So then, is it for the purpose of variation that the sun gives way to the moon, that the seasons flow through time? Is it this simple? This complex? Or is it simply, singularly random?
Do you begin to see? Laying in bed awake at night, writing words into the darkness above you and wishing they would take form. Materialize. Asking yourself why, why not, how. Listening for the different cadences in each individual's voice, counting the number of notes in between each conversation's caesura.
Do you understand? Do you understand this observing, this pursuing?
Of course you don't. You who tell me to be honest. You can't possibly break through the illusion of grandeur and see honesty for the suffering and utter impossibility that it is.
But do you want to know a secret?
For all that wondering, for all that seeking, for all those endless days and nights lost to time, I know what Truth is.
Thanks for reading!
November 17, 2007