storytelling

Take a pew, and, view;
beyond…

Beyond yourself,
beyond the Earth,
beyond the stars,
beyond the galaxies,
beyond the universe.

Viewing, beyond;
what is material,
beyond;
what is imagined,
beyond;
the conscious and subconscious.

Viewing, beyond; what, is and what, is not.
Viewing, beyond; existence.

In doing so, you will find, that; life as we know it, really, is, all relative. Relative to all. Relative to all matter, and, all, that matters. Relative to all that is spawned, whether as a thought, or, as a conscious being. Relative to the Creator, to all that has been created, to all that has the capability to create and to the creative processes, which allow for creativity to exist.

Imagine;
an incessant, indefinite, prismal hall, adorned and inlaid with, ‘the mirrors of creation’. Each and every looking glass projecting reflections from opposite sides. Deeper and deeper, within, the triangular facing juxtapositions, for all of time and space and realities. Immemorial. All introspections, conjured and displayed, extrospectively, for infinity, like reflective echoes.

Reflective echoes which sense and show; time, space and reality, in every way. Every, single, mind-churning creation. Every originitavely, conceivable and inconceivable, manifestation of life and death, being thrown back, over and over and over again. Reflective echoes prone to making continual, mirrored changes of every variety. Changes that alter the course of existence, instinctively and perpetually. Reflective echoes, that exist to exhibit every crotchet and quaver of existence. Exist to practice, orchestrate and finely tune the never-ending nuances, of; survival and extinction, safety and danger, the procreated and the departed, reasoning and understanding, order and chaos, creation and destruction. Birthing and deceasing; lyrics, ballads and dithyrambs, of hatched esse, based on, anything, everything, and, nothing; for aye.

Please, please, throughout your life, do not sweat the small stuff.

Because in reality; you are the smallest of stuff, sweating, profusely. Picture this, in your mind…

you; are, just… a biological cell.

A cell, hitching a ride, atop a bead of human sweat, that is the equivalent of our planet, the Earth. A bead of Earthly sweat, ensconced, rolling, and orbiting, within the fold of a galactic, rotating human neck. That, human neck, is, The Milky Way. A galactic neck, affixed, within, a human body, that is, this, solitary universe.

Now, relatively speaking, imagine a huge crowd of human bodies (which in this case are being used as a metaphor for multiple universes) running, alongside one another. Human bodies, continously sprinting, amongst a stampeding mass, of; infinitely sprinting human bodies. A mass of infinitely sprinting human bodies, trivially competing, without any purpose other than to simply exist and run, in a never ending race without a finish line, on an undisclosed planet, in an undisclosed galaxy, in an undisclosed universe. That is the multiverse. Rushing, repeating, and changing. Rushing, repeating, and changing. Rushing, repeating and changing. Una in perpetuum, una in perpetuum, una in perpetuum…

Now, remember the biological cell?

That is how small you are in the grand scheme of everything. So, is it really worth, worrying, about, anything, at all?

The answer is; No.

Foolishly, if you feel that you must worry about anything, then, realistically, you should be worrying about everything. Why worry, when you could be admiring the astounding probability that you are even alive and reading, this, right now?

Realistically, the fact that you are living and bearing the opportunity to frivolously exist, is, amazing in it’s; impossibility. It is a miracle; in, and of, itself. The treasured miracle of existence has an infinite probability of equally not existing. So, treasure it dearly and enjoy it while you can clutch it. There are so many creations that never get the chance to experience, cherish and possess existence.

That makes you impossibly lucky!

Enjoy the miracle that is your life, please. Adore it, in its uniquity, for as long as you can.

Incredibly, your energy, your life-force, your soul, can never be destroyed, now that, you, have been; created. Because, existing, is, an imagined notion, within a universe’s dream, that springs to life, for a moment, of; impossibility.

You, are; a universe’s subconscious thought; imagined, cast and realised.

You leave creative markings on the stardust, that you; engage, embody and exude. Your conceptual, existential, starly shapes are never forgotten by the autogenic, empyrean energy, that you; hold, mould and enfold.

You will, always live on, within the folklore of the cosmos, as, an unforgettable, starry story. A cosmological fable; remembered, reworded and re-personified. And, so, within the realms of imagined existence, brought to life, your energy will remain, lived out amongst the stars, forever.

The reckoning had begun.
Beckoning toward Fionnula, his finger curled; like a twisted, hysterical contortionist.

“You always have been a sick fucker, haven’t you, Michael.”

The walk toward him seemed to last an eternity. Each stride Fionnula took, quaked. Creating bodily shockwaves, that traversed her very being. Every single part of her anatomy shook. Every pumping organ, every rattling bone, every piece of flesh, every inch of skin, every solitary cell, every atom.

Their gloomy, adversarial figures, illuminated by the brooding candelabra, made for a shady, evil, twilight puppet show. Each animated plume of scarrow, seemed to prophesise and play out scenarios, across the floor, walls, and, furnishings. Each tenebrous, charging, anthropomorphic silhouette, revealed, the inner turmoil, both, Fionnula and Michael, felt. Whilst, preemptively, divulging, the possible outcomes, of the outlying battle, yet, to take place. Fionnula’s chilled breath quickened, as though, it were, attempting to escape, her aghast chasm, of a mouth. Her pneumatic thoughts were quickening too. They anxiously jumped, jostling, for pole position and, after the starter pistol, in racing hurriedly toward a solution, her blundering thoughts, had, fumbled, and, dropped, the baton to freedom.

“I may be a sick fucker, Fionnula, but, at least, I’m not a sickly, sweet cunt, like you. Or, sick enough to fuck myself over. You managed that, all by yourself, didn’t you? Did you, really, think, for one second, that I wouldn’t f-find out?!”

Fionnula’s wry smile crept upon her face, slowly, like a setting, summer sun. She had underestimated Michael. He, now, had her, exactly, where he wanted her. A prisoner, to her own lack of foresight, and, a prisoner, to a man she had deemed a psychopath, since his birth. She blinked frantically, hoping each, flickering eyelash, would jump start, the synaptic motor, in her overheating, radiator of a brain. Memories rolled, flashing brightly, yet, opaquely, and always humorously leaden, through her mind, like a silent keystone cop-esque film from the 1910’s. Despairingly, Fionnula trawled her oceanic, grey matter for Michael’s weaknesses. Any preexisting foible, or, sensitivity – anything she could darkly cast, in order for him, to take the inky bait, and, bite, dimly.

It had taken twenty-six years, for, Michael, to overcome his stammer. He was so badly bullied, because of it, during his childhood, that, in adulthood, he had moved, to the other side of the country. A move, with which, he had intended to restart his life. To start everything over again. With a clear mind, a clean slate, and, the freedom of unimpeded speech, at his disposal. The miles, travelled, away from his hometown, had been; a chevroned-shaped glottal victory, a voice emancipating march, a broad-winged flight of fluency, a loose lipped maiden voyage of liberation.

His previously, unpalatable dreams, of long-lusted, unhindered conversations, had, finally, come true. Yet, now, those dreams had been, unable to resist, handbrake-turning, into; diverted, barrier breaking car crashes, called unkept promises. All of his hard work had been undone in a single crunch. Severing the silver tongue he had meticulously and painstakingly spent every waking hour of the last twenty-six years perfecting. A vow to never, ever, take the U-turn back down the M1, to the provincial slums, of inner-city Nottingham, had been, broken, much like his speech pattern. And because of that, vengeance was afoot. Michael knew, that somebody, had to pay the ultimate price, for placing his foot back in his mouth. Pay for his re-emerged, daily orthoepic impairment. Just, pay. That bewildered, yet, unflinching, and, always, self-righteous customer, was, in fact, Fionnula.

poorman'sdreams

A Universal Truth

The Reckoning (Part 1)