Edge of Tomorrow: An Article As Pointless As the Movie

Disclaimer: This is not a review. It is a metaphorical take on the entire movie. The whole thing may be pointless and I have just written this for the heck of it. If you don’t like it, you’ve just wasted precious minutes of your day. If you liked it, you’ve still wasted precious minutes of your day. You have been warned! Seriously, it is absolutely pointless.

From a very personal point of view the movie Edge of Tomorrow was disappointing. While I must admit, the concept is very unique the movie in itself was stretched and boring, barring a few scenes though. For those who have not watched this movie, basically it’s about a soldier who gains the ability to reset time every time he dies and restart the day. A series of events unfold and he saves humanity…typical. It is important to note that the protagonist is able to remember the events every time he wakes up at the beginning of the day once he has been killed.

I’m not going to waste precious fake pages on the story and what-not of the movie. I’m simply going to focus on the concept and take it a step further. Here is the thing, take any individual, any average person and record the events of his/her day. Now give that person the opportunity to live that same day again, wherein the same set of events unfold, like a re-run of that day. Let’s define event here, so that the remainder of this pointless thought process gains some perspective. An event is defined as the basic act at any given instant of time during aforementioned repeatable day. For example, eating breakfast is an event but not eating a specific cereal for breakfast, that is what describes the event. To be clear, whether the person ate cereal for breakfast or toast they have done essentially the same thing; eating breakfast. I hope I’m being clear (if not, screw this article, it’s pointless anyway).

Here’s what I found worth taking away from Edge of Tomorrow. Any average person runs through a day having a set of specific events. At the end of the day he/she “kills” themselves and resets the day to do the whole thing again; the exact same events but, there is a very real possibility of making a different choice with regard to a specific event. Now let’s say on the first run of the repeatable day, person “A” had cereal for breakfast, on the next run person “A” may or may not have cereal, he/she may have toast or eggs or whatever the heck it is people can possibly eat for breakfast. Similarly every event that runs through the twenty-four hour long day has various possibilities and results based on that instants specific choice. Basically what I’m saying is that the day in essence remains the same, it is nothing but a sum total of a series of events. What we choose with regard to those events creates a very not-so-optical illusion that it is unique. It’s not unique; you’re doing the same thing and fulfilling the same purpose. We all are. We excite different taste buds with different foods, but does that make any difference to why we eat? Absolutely not. We eat to kill hunger, we sleep to kill exhaustion and we drink to quench thirst and/or alcoholic desires. Yes, we are all sorry suckers who are doing the exact same thing every freaking day to meet the same ends. We only think we are doing something unique but we aren’t. I write to pass the time as a hobby, someone plays sports, someone eats, and someone sleeps. The purpose of all the above though is to pass time. There is nothing unique about it.

What does this have to do with the movie though? The protagonist keeps dying and waking up to do the same thing again just a little differently, with the end result being him ending up killing himself. Now, let’s bring into the picture that this protagonist can remember the day that was before it repeated. So he knows how the events are going to play out and tries something different again and again and again until he can predict almost everything and walk through that day to achieve whatever he wants to.

Let’s bring that perspective to our regular person. He/she is able to remember the events of the previous day with exemplary detail. The result of which would be he/she making a different choice forcing the day in a different direction, or – more appropriately -- apparent direction. He/she would still end up living through the exact same events again and again and again, it would just excite different parts of the brain creating the illusion of moving in a forward direction with regard to a specific day. Basically making re-run 456 different from every other re-run. What’s the point? Absolutely nothing. At the end of re-run 456 our average person still ends up “killing” himself and performing re-run 457 when he wakes up.

Let’s push this concept a little further. Let’s say that average person is incapable of remembering the events of the previous re-run. So when he/she wakes up basically they think it is an absolutely new day with entirely new possibilities. Here’s what can happen in this case. In the previous case memory of the events of a previous re-run allowed the current re-run to play out apparently differently. However, in this case, the possibility that our average person could end up doing the exact same thing, running through the same events making the exact same choices again and again and again, essentially even killing the apparent direction in which his/her life was apparently moving in essentially creating an infinite vortex of repeatable choices along with repeatable days. Before the set was exhaustive, after a countable infinite number of re-runs that average person would have to create a new “event” altogether in order for a feeling of “unique”. However, in both cases, there is absolutely no point in waking up again to experience the same events again and again and again.

The idea that time is playing this sick joke on us is scary and at a very psychotic level comical as well. It’s brilliant! The joke is always on us. We think the dates of the calendar are moving forward but they aren’t. we are and have always been stuck in that same god damned day and we keep creating new ways and “solutions” to make ourselves feel that “yesterday” is gone, “today” is here and “tomorrow” is yet to come. We are living all three at exactly the same time. We don’t age, we are supposed to evolve. We claim we have “new” experiences, we don’t; we perceive the same experience differently every time. But is it possible to do something to break this shitty cycle? Or are we forever doomed to live in this bullshit circle of “today” again and again and again.

What about growth, what did we do to grow physically, mentally, emotionally etc. What did we do to reach where we are? Have we reached anywhere? I think I can safely say (solely based on the assumptions made through this pointless article) that we can and we have grown. The thing we forget is that every time we add a new “event” in our lives is when we actually move ahead. How exactly we can do this, I have no clue. One possibility seems to be that we have to exhaust every re-run of the same day before we can actually create a new event in order to apparently experience an apparent unique. We are equipped with memory, so this is possible. But, anyone would agree that a lifetime is too short for this to happen. I call bullshit on this. We do create new events every day, its part and parcel of evolution. We don’t realize their existence. Hence, we remain stuck in a cycle and complain about it.

What? That’s it. The end of my pointless article. If you enjoyed it, you have just as much free time on your hands as I do. If you didn’t, please read the disclaimer again. For all you neutral people, I really don’t care. Have a nice day (Pun majorly intended)! Ciao suckers.

********

Shed Light on Blood

The wise folk of the village spoke of a terrible tale. Once every century, a sleeping beast would be woken to terrorize the village. It was the curse that had befallen our otherwise calm and beautiful place. It was that time of our century, the year of the beast; the hideous monster that seemingly appears out of nowhere and sheds blood. He feeds on fear, death and anguish. No one had ever seen the beast, but tales from ancient folklore describe it as an enormous, dark wolf. Its eyes red gleam in the moonlight and its black fur stained with the blood of its victims; its teeth as sharp as the sharpest blades and a filthy rotten yellow. Its breath could burn the hearts of children and its roar could deafen anyone who merely picked up on that horrendous sound. 

“The savage is here!” she screamed. The whole village was in commotion; men, women and children alike running for nowhere. There was no escape; the wrath of the beast was omnipotent. The village soon filled with the shrieks of the helpless. It was at this moment that the army of the forsaken stood affront, pitchfork and torches in hand. These were men with no cause; they enjoyed the opportunity to kill. They stood valiant at the gates of the village, waiting anxiously -- while others ran for nowhere -- for the beast to appear. “We the men of no cause have no fear!” yelled their captain, raising his torch high facing his men. His army began to roar in unison banging their weapons on the cold, dry ground. The dust began to swirl slowly. The moment would have been a glorious one had it not been for the howl. It appeared from behind them.

All the men turned around in one swift motion and there stood the monstrosity, its eyes closed, and head facing downwards. “Why do you beckon me forth?” it asked, its grey, icy breath caressing the already shivering men of the forsaken army. “We call you forth so we may destroy you beast!” shouted the brave captain. “Silence!” it roared, “Do not question fear my wasteful foe. Do not deny the death you see standing before you. I am the violence you seek. I am the king of doom!” with those words the beast had lunged into battle, ripping limb from limb of every man it brushed passed. Its feet were drenched in the blood that flowed like a river beneath it. It in itself was unharmed. The torches, pitchforks or swords could do nothing against it. It was impermeable, invincible; last stood the captain of the forsaken army, quivering and bleeding. “You dare challenge me?” the beast threatened, its breath burning the man’s skin. It roared loud and thunderous raising its paws to slash the man’s throat when appeared another voice a woman’s. “Stay” she said. The voice brought warmth to the air that seemed all but lost for the ages. The beast stopped instantaneously and put its deadly, blood-stained paw down. “Come to me” she said. There was no one around but the beast was facing a particular direction, its alert ears now pointed downwards. It was subdued. As the beast moved closer to the sound, the form of a woman became more and more clear and where there was just a voice stood an angel. The fur of the beast turned white as he moved towards her, his blood red eyes turned jet black, his rotten teeth now not rotten, his hot breath now calm and peaceful. “Why must you hurt yourself so?” she asked caressing the beasts head. his eyes shut, his ears down and he whimpered. All the anger suddenly gone, he sat himself at her feet and continued whimpering.  He howled to the full, bright moon, now brighter than the sun itself and the dead soldiers rose to their feet, the blood on the ground turned to water and all was well again.

The angel laid her soft hands on the now majestic beasts chest, his heart beat steady and calm and all watched in wonder as it turned into a frail man kneeling at her feet. As I watched from a distance I had to know what coy this was, “Who are you mighty angel? Who are you, the one who has tamed the beast?” I asked. She looked at me, a simple smile on her face, and said, “I am the one who sees no beast. For what lies beneath your fears and anger is a child. I am the mother of everything” and in a bright, brilliant light, they disappeared. The tales of old still remain a mystery to me.

*******

The Ocean at a Distance

He knelt at the banks of a gushing river; the gentle sound that arose from water crashing against the rocks, the foam that arose from the uneven flow was beauty unmatched. The beauty was an illusion; it hid the mighty force of the river.  At the far end he knew the river would meet its maker. The enormous ocean stood still, waiting patiently for the rivers to arrive to their final resting place. He knelt at the banks, gazing away into the distance, picturing the ocean. He was not far from meeting his maker either, death could not be eluded, and he knew that. He smiled at the thought of how no matter what path the rivers took, they always reached the ocean. It was true with all natural beings; each defines a purpose and strives to achieve but in the end there is no individual or a purpose. What then is the meaning of purpose, if at the end we are united with nothingness and every “different” man becomes united in a giant ocean, which remains uniform and simply exists, unchanged or marred by anything? He began reflecting on his own life. At a time so close to death, so close to the ocean, the journey seemed a haze. Worst of all it seemed pointless. Why must the river flow so forcefully, attempt to break anything that stands in its way, erode all that it touches to reach an eternal state of calm? The very idea that everything must be experienced in order to reach nothing drove him crazy. He had struggled, cheated, sacrificed, earned and worked all for nothing, a state of nothing. The journey, at its end, became clear and it laughed at him. It mocked him for believing in anything tangible. Everything that was real, now just appeared real. We live a full life to become empty at the end. What was the point? Why must the river flow? Why must it crash? Why must it rise? Why must it twist and bend? Why can’t the river, a spawn of the ocean, replicate the ocean and stay still? Why are we all running to the place we came from? Why are we aiming to go back to how we were before existence? If it is the natural order of things to return to their initial state of nothingness, then existence in itself must be an illusion, to exist must be devoid of “life”. Maybe, the river understands, maybe it sees through the veil, through the wholesome abundance of existence and hence is driven to move towards the ocean, understanding that it has been stripped of its life and asked to live. Could it really be that simple? Could nothing in our life matter? Is there a possibility that death was indeed life calling us back and not the end of life as we assume it to be? Should death be welcomed?

His breath began to fade slowly; he could feel the world around him shrink with his fading breath. It was nothing as he had ever imagined, the call of death was a loving one. There was no pain, it was easy, simple. He smiled as his eyes shut; the darkness was even more calming. He felt his body dwindle away from his mind, flopping forward into the river. He did not choke, for he was not breathing, his eyes were shut and his body disconnected. He felt movement, the speed ever increasing until finally he was surrounded by it, that calm and peace that he was searching for in the non-existent world where he had served death. Here he was alive and powerful. He was free in the truest sense of the word.

He welcomed life.

********

His Broken Mirror

            The things he had seen were beyond his own wildest imaginations. Luke was gone, finally. He was relieved and yet he was also morose. Luke was his best friend, his confidante. He had protected him, always. Now, he had run away. With Luke gone, he felt lonely. A part of him was lost and it left an enormous, gaping hole in his brittle heart. Could Luke have been saved? That was a question he would never be able to answer, not anymore, not since Luke left his side. As he sat in his dingy room, lights out, he reflected upon Luke and reminisced all their inglorious moments together. They said he was insane. Who were they to mark him as anything, let alone insane?

********

Three months ago:

He lay wide awake staring at the blank ceiling. It was another wall to him, another boundary, another way for a world full of unimaginative mongrels to strap him to an unjust and ubiquitous reality. They said he was deranged. They said he was retarded. It was they who were retarded and deranged, oh yes, it was they. What did they know? They couldn’t possibly comprehend his world. Who were they to mark him as anything, let alone insane? He lay wide awake staring at the ceiling; just another wall that trapped him, he smiled ear-to-ear at the thought. He was strong and courageous, he was invincible. They could lock him away in a box for as long as they wished but he would not, for the life of it, admit defeat. He hadn’t blinked in hours, his eyes burned; the pain demanding he shut them despite which they were open and they would remain open. He would keep them open else they would win, he couldn’t have that – no, they couldn’t win, shouldn’t win, they wouldn’t win. He was not going to allow the oppressed to rule him, his freedom. He was free and they would never be capable enough to rip him of it.

His head turned right and there too was a wall, its resemblance to the ceiling uncanny. It was the same white, made of the same stone and equidistant from where he lay to that ceiling -- another wall which trapped him. “Just” he said taking his time between each word, “another wall.” His head turned left, there it was again; the same white wall made of the same stone but, this was closer and he could see the shadow of his weak soul on it, staring back at him. The wall nearly kissed his face; he could feel the heat in his breath as it ricocheted off the wall and slapped his face hard. It was his third day lying awake in that same room, with those same walls. The stone, on which he lay, was cold and dry. He shivered as it sent repetitive lacerating chills up and down his spine each time with increased intensity, each time numbing his senses momentarily, but the cold never bothered him – he was fearless. He was free, oh yes he was, and no one was ever going to take that away from him; his wings may have been ripped off his back, and his back may have been broken but he was free and he would stay free. 

He continued shifting his head; facing the ceiling then the right wall and then the left wall as the clock sung tick-tock, mocking him as the walls ate away his life. He tried moving his arms; they had been too still for far too long and they rested cross on his chest, as he lay wide awake staring at the walls, eyes dry and burning in that same room, for the third day. He stretched but his hands would not release from that crossed position. They seemed tied down. He grew agitated. The oppressed, unimaginative mongrels had tied him down. How dare they? He attempted to stretch his hands again but they would not budge. He was free though, he had to be free, else what was the point? No, no, he was free; he was that black bird flying through the night sky undeterred by even the light of the moon. These beasts wouldn’t have it, not his freedom no! Who were they to break him? Who were they to rip his wings? He thrashed in protest, jerking his arms violently as he did so, attempting to move them. They wouldn’t budge. “I am free” he whispered to himself, “I am free.” He continued thrashing, rolling left to right as the force of his arms dragged him. “I am FREE!” he began to yell as he thrashed fiercely, the rebel in him growing stronger as blood pounded in his head; so hard it hurt him. He began to laugh hysterically but softly. As his fervent thrashing grew stronger, his laughter grew louder, drooling from the sides of his mouth -- his dry, burning eyes – tearing, oozing partially dry mucus through his flaring nostrils. “I AM FREE!” he yelled again.

There was a bang and suddenly he saw dark figures above him; the shadows of them; those who tied him down, the ones who took away his wings. “NO!” he yelled, “You will not! Not again!” he bellowed, as he continued his hysterical laughter, echoing off those walls – the walls that trapped him. One of the shadows held him down with a force he never knew existed and the other had an object in its hand. “NO! NO! NO!” he protested, vigorously shaking and thrashing to break free from the grip of the monster that held him, as he knew that object in the other shadows hand, he had seen it one too many times before. It was all they had against him, all they had used to rip his wings apart, to break his back and to paralyze his arms. It was all they needed to rip his freedom from him, like tearing flesh from bone; it was the knife, that same knife they used to cut pieces of his life apart, the one they used to tear his wings, the one they used to rip his arms off. He was free, he would rebel, he would give them war; he would die fighting. They can tear his wings, his limbs and they can even rip his mind into mere fragmented shreds of flesh but, they could never rip his spirit for that was free and if he needed to forsake his body to protect it, he would do so – gladly. He kicked, screamed and yelled. The shadow holding him down now intensified his already dominating and powerful force. He choked on his mucus, on his drool, on his tears -- his breath unable to come clear through the passageways of his diminishing strength. He spat and the specks flew across the room in all directions, he needed air, he needed to breathe to be free, they were choking him, they were choking the freedom out of him, those foul shadows! His face now wet with his own mucus, tears and drool -- he was helpless, he was not free. The shadows, they owned him, they owned his being, and they had succeeded in imprisoning him in entirety. He gave one last effort, he kicked and screamed but it was in vain, the shadows were too powerful, too dark for his deliberately diminishing light. The other shadow brought down the knife and plunged it into his chest, right through his heart, so deep he felt his soul twinge. He screamed as the pain seared through his chest into his very bones and spread through his weak and already disfigured body. Yet he was not dead. His breathing became softer and the blur began to clear. What was this? What was this place? What were they doing to him? Where there were shadows now stood two people, they were wearing what looked like nurse’s uniforms and one of them held a syringe loosely dangling between her fingers. Over the pounding in his head, he heard one of them say something. He couldn’t grasp the whole statement – too weary for that -- but he was certain he heard, “Doctor…patient…needs rest…” It couldn’t be. He was free! He was supposed to be free! What hell had they brought him to? He was the bird, that black bird that flew through the night sky, undeterred by the light of the moon; or was he? Now, he had lost his wings but, did he ever have them? He wept as he came to terms with his reality; he was and henceforth would never be, free.

********

Three days ago:

            He watched keenly as they frolicked around. The game room was full, as usual, between the hours of four-thirty and six-thirty. It was the only time any of them really saw any of the others. Some had made associates, others accomplices to their vivid imaginations, and others still (very few of them) made friends. The institute had now become his home and all those in it were his “family”, or so they wanted him to believe. He found it difficult to associate himself with any of these ludicrous monkeys as they yapped about rainbows, attempted to predict the weather, read books in groups or played a hand of poker. The lack of sophistication at any level was disturbing and abusive to his senses. No, he was not one of them. He was unique and special. He knew that, for it was certain, he could feel it in his blood. He was above the whimsical fancies of the common lunatic. He had been deemed insane by the insane; just as expected from an unaccepting society.

            “It’s your turn mister” said a kind looking nurse. One of the very few people he respected. There was an elegant aura that surrounded her which enticed him. It reminded him of Sarah. It was in the small things, the way her hair was neatly strapped, the way she consistently-- without fail, everyday-- organized the medicine, the way her uniform was always neat and tidy but, most of all, it was in her tone. She was genuinely kind. He rarely disobeyed her orders. As she had said, it was his turn, so he simply nodded and stood up to follow. She led him through the game room, past the visitor hall and took a right to face a wooden door on which the plaque read: “Dr. Janice Brody”

            “Come in” ushered Dr. Brody as the kind nurse knocked the door. “You’re five-o-clock ma’am” she said, her right hand holding the door knob and her left pointing, respectfully, at him. Dr. Brody nodded and he walked straight in. He took a few moments to stare around the office, absorbing the minute details – the color of the tables, the seats, the lines of books shelved neatly. The room even had a window, cheerfully lighting the floorboards with the evening light. “Please have a seat” Dr. Brody insisted. He liked her tone; she too had similar qualities to the kind nurse. He did as she had kindly pleaded, perching himself on the comfortable leather cushion.

            “So, how’s your stay been so long?” she asked beaming at him, her perfectly aligned teeth, reassuring him that he may trust her. He gently nodded and replied, “Pleasant.” It had been anything but pleasant. The bathrooms constantly reeked of urine, and the food was miserable, the beds were but made of bricks. Yet, he chose to be polite to someone with Dr. Brody’s charm. “Good, good” she said and began to flip through a series of pages inside a folder on her lap. Her smile began fading as she read through each page and just about disappeared as she reached the eighth page. He wasn’t sure what was bothering her and so he obliged himself to be courteous, “Anything the matter Miss?” She stared at the page for a few more seconds before replying, “No, everything’s just dandy.” He could literally smell the strain in her voice. She was lying to him.

            “My dear, old pal, she knows about us” said Luke, “I can smell it!” he was angry, Luke was always angry. “We don’t know that” he told Luke and forced a smile on his face. Dr. Brody stared at him with a rather quizzical expression on her face, vaguely searching the room. He did not appreciate it. Maybe Luke was right, maybe she did know about them. “I’m telling you, she knows!” Luke repeated. But he wanted to be sure. He needed to be sure. She continued staring at him, her eyes now showing slight signs of worry. He bent down, curling his hands over his head, “This isn’t the time Luke. Nothing has happened.” Luke laughed, the laugh echoed in his head, the pitch increasing, “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb…” Luke began to sing. He couldn’t take it, not that song, “STOP!” he yelled covering his ears. Dr. Brody reacted to the shouting, she cowered. “You see friend, I told you, she knows! Would you like her to dig deep, find out about how bloody the lamb got?” Luke asked. Luke was right, there was too much she might know but, he had to tread carefully.

            “Mister…” Dr. Janice began but he cut her off, “Oh, please continue.” She seemed a bit distressed. Could she know? If so, how could she know? He had to be certain. “Let me out!” Luke demanded. He remained silent, ignoring Luke and his paranoia. “I’m just curious, I heard you talking to Luke. Who is that?” she straightened herself on her seat and smiled as she asked the question. “Oh no, no, no doctor.” He replied clicking his tongue while shaking his head – slowly-- a demonic, evil sparkle in his eyes. “I told you she knew!” Luke said venomously, gritting his teeth. “Not yet Luke” he said patiently in a menacingly calm tone as he watched the color drain from Dr. Brody’s face. The doctor was perplexed, she had treated similar patients before but, there was deep malignance in his words; it was effervescent with death. “Ok” she squeaked, the fear in her voice was so eminent even a three-year-old boy would have sniffed it out, “Let’s talk about Sarah then.” The name sparked a dangerous rage in him, his eyes turned blood-red, and his breath hot and his body so tight, he thought it would snap. “How do you know?” he asked, shivering in fury. She moved uncomfortably in her chair, outbursts of anger were common in therapy but this was beyond normal; it sucked the warmth in the air and gave birth to an icy chill, “It’s in your file.” She said.  “I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! It’s her isn’t it? Sarah, it’s her playing games with you my friend” Luke voiced out. He couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be, or was it? How was he not seeing it? Luke had seen it; he had seen it much before anyone else. How?

            “Is everything ok?” she squeaked, her pitch higher this time. “It can’t be!” he said. But, Luke was right; it was her all over again. It was Sarah! The fuel kept pouring into the flame, the rage now so hot he was sweating, his face livid; he saw red. Within an instant he had lunged from his seat, his hands outstretched as he landed square in front of her and clenched her throat, squeezing it, feeling the blood in her veins pulsating against his hands. She was frail, she was weak. What could she do? His force was tremendous and his anger even greater. “That’s enough Luke!” he said but Luke wouldn’t stop; the squeezing just got harder, her face almost blue. She got bluer as the seconds ticked by. Luke was laughing, that same laugh that echoed through his head. “Let her go Luke!” he demanded but Luke remained vengeful. “Mary had a little lamb…” he began to sing as he choked her, watching the life drain from her eyes as her pupils contracted to a dot. Her nostrils began to bleed, and Luke laughed even harder, menacingly, it tore through his head, echoing bouncing off the walls of his skull. “Luke STOP!” he yelled and finally Luke let her go and she dropped to the ground. He stood over her, sweating, hoping beyond hope that she would be fine; she was breathing. Luke simply laughed and continued to sing, “Mary had a little lamb…” The malevolent laughter resounding in his head as he fell face-flat next to the good doctor’s feet.

            He woke up after what seemed like hours in a room, staring at the ceiling, unable to move. He was groggy; Luke always made him weary and frail. “Just another wall” he said to himself, taking his time with each word, as he fell back to slumber; the laughter now a distant echo in his head. “Mary had a little lamb…”

                                                                        ********

Three Years Ago:

            The little girl sat in her room, playing with her dolls. Her favorite was the Mary doll with her little, fluffy lamb -- lying across the room. She crawled over to the doll and began to play, all the while singing her favorite song, “Mary had a little lamb…” when all of a sudden she heard a deafening scream. The shrillness made her quiver with fear, her skin riddled with goose-bumps. She held Mary close to her chest, hugging the doll hard, hoping for some form of comfort, which chose to elude her. She heard the scream again, the voice – why was it so familiar? She heard the front door of her house burst open, failing miserably to muffle the scream, and a dim light grazed her window. She was drawn to it, for an unknown reason. She moved towards the window, the dim yellow light beckoning her. She climbed the stool nearby and peeped outside the window. The screams grew louder and the voice more familiar and she saw it, the source of the screams. There on her front yard was a woman, on fire. On the ground she rolled in an attempt to douse the flames, screaming and screaming. The little girl was scared, but she couldn’t avert her eyes. Something was drawing her to that burning woman; she felt a gut-wrenching urge to help the woman ablaze. One last scream before the woman stopped moving and the flames continued to burn through her flesh, now effortlessly. The little girl, clutching her Mary doll ever so tightly, realized why she was drawn to the burning corpse. It was her mother. Another voice became clear, a man’s voice, her father’s as he yelled, “No! Sarah!”

            He was devastated. Why had she done this? Sarah had seemed out of sorts for a while, but he had never known her to be capable of such atrocity. He sat there, on his porch, staring at the burnt corpse of his beloved wife as the neighbors peeped out of their windows, through the blinds, at a distance. Nobody seemed to be doing anything about it. “It was all for the best, my friend” said Luke. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend how it could have been for the best. All he could see was the flame, the bright light as it ate away her beautiful skin, her flesh, slowly turning her bone to ash. “It was all for the best” Luke repeated. “How is this for the best?” he retorted. “She knew old pal” Luke said, “She knew too much. It had to be done!” Luke’s voice remained cold and menacing. “You did this?” he asked. Luke remained silent. “Answer me!” he couldn’t shout, he was too wrapped in grief and he had not the energy for it. “Yes. This was my work” Luke replied, his tone bereft of even a hint of remorse. “Why Luke why?” he cried, hoping the answer would bring him some solace. “She knew too much my boy” Luke replied, the tone remaining cold, “she had to go!” the answer brought him no peace. He couldn’t understand the threat. Luke seemed to understand – Luke did understand, yes. Luke must be right. Sarah had to go. Luke had never failed him, had always looked out for his best interests. His freedom must have been on the line, hanging by a thread. She was extra weight, a burden unnecessary – he saw it now, he comprehended. He grew relaxed, “Now you see, don’t you my dear friend?” Luke said, his pitch growing higher as he began to laugh. He couldn’t laugh though, not along with Luke, he loved his wife but, as Luke had said, she knew too much. As the peace crept in through the labyrinth of his pain, he heard a small voice behind him, “Daddy…”

            She watched her father; talking to the one he called Luke. She had seen it before, many times. Her father turned around slowly, his eyes visible over the hunch of his shoulder, ‘Yes, little girly” he said. It was her father, but the voice was unfamiliar. She clutched the Mary doll even harder. The air was chill, ice-cold. She looked around the hall and saw scorch marks everywhere. “You called me?” he said, with the same ice-cold tone. She could not find the words to speak. “Daddy…” she said simply, clutching her Mary doll and wept quietly.

            “Come here child” Luke said. He was too devastated to bother about his own daughter. Luke would take care of her, he knew it. The little girl continued sobbing at the bottom of the stairwell, holding her Mary doll. “It’s ok.” Luke reassured her, his tone remaining cold. He wished he had the strength to comfort his daughter, the only remnant of his wife – she had her eyes. “Come to daddy” Luke said, his arms outstretched, laughing menacingly. Luke would take care of her, he thought.

            Her father beckoned her, but something deep inside her held her from reaching out. The voice, it was disturbingly cruel. He laughed, as if the smell of the smoke and burnt flesh made him happy. She slowly stepped back. “She knows!” she heard him yell as he stood up with a sudden flash. “Luke no!” she heard him say. It was all too much for the little girl, she broke for her room. All the way up the stairs she heard her father yelling, “Luke stop” and then laughing that menacing laugh, “She knows!” She was almost there, her safe haven, her room. There she would be safe, that’s what her mother had told her. She would be safe in her room. She ran with all her might, her father fumbling on the stairs behind her. She couldn’t scream; the fear and commotion choking her.

            “She knows!” Luke shouted as he made for the top of the stairs. “Luke, please, she’s a little girl. She won’t say anything!” he tried to stop Luke. Luke wouldn’t have it. Luke looked down from the top of the stairs, “Maybe now, my friend. What about when she grows old? Huh! Do you think she’ll stay quiet?” The question perplexed him. Could that sweet little girl – the one with his wife’s eyes -- be a threat? Could Luke be speaking a truth he was incapable of understanding? Lost in thought he suddenly realized, Luke had reached his daughters room. “Come here girly!”

            Her father had burst through the door, taking slow steps towards her, his smile ear-to-ear. At least the laughing had stopped, she was thankful. “Daddy…” she said, whimpering, hiding herself behind her Mary doll. “Yes child, daddy’s here” he said and began laughing again. It tore through her, the laughter. The fear clouded everything. “Luke please no. PLEASE!” she heard him say. “My friend, I’m doing this for you. Where would you be without me?” she peeped from behind her Mary doll and saw her father facing the door, “Luke…” he said. Suddenly he turned around, with that same wide smile, his eyes each facing opposite directions, he began to sing, “Mary had a little lamb…” as laughter filled the room, the house and the streets, she finally found the strength to wail.

            “…the neighbor’s said they heard a girl screaming. Looks like a real scene. Go check it out” the woman voiced over the radio. Officer Reynolds was hoping for a peaceful night. However, duty called. He followed the instructions and reached the location. In the yard was a burning body, he snapped into his senses. The whole house was dark, except for a single light emitting from a room on the first floor. He screeched to a halt and jumped out of his car, flashlight in hand. He approached the house carefully, afraid of the possibilities. The stench of the burning body filled the air but, the air was chill, too cold. He made his way to the front door, already open, he pushed it in gently. There was nothing there, he moved towards the stairwell, towards the only room with the light on. He was on the top step when he heard it, two voices, both male. “Luke...why?” said one and the other began to speak, “She knew, my friend. She knew!” he said. The second voice sent a chill down his spine. The air grew even colder. He reached the front of the door and kicked it open, gun out. There he was, weeping on a child’s bed and in his hand he held what looked like a fluffy toy. He wasn’t even remotely shocked by the entry Officer Reynolds made. He sat there still and slowly flopped backwards and the toy fell to the ground. It looked like a lamb, a fluffy lamb. It was a while before Reynolds figured it out, the strangeness of it; the lamb was covered in blood.

********

Thirteen Years ago:

            The schoolyard was his favorite place. Not during recess though, he hated his peers. They were unimaginative, too locked down by the rules set by those inferior to him. The evenings after school, that’s when he loved it, the empty swings, screeching away in the breeze and everything else stood motionless, for the most part. The noise was gone and silence took over except for the slight wailing of the wind as it passed the trees that lined the borders of the playground. He would sit there every day, delaying his return home to even more unimaginative dimwits with low reality standards.

            On one particular evening, he sat on the swing which creaked because of the rust decaying at its joints. He sat alone for a few minutes envisioning his own utopia, where everyone had their own choices and free will. While he fascinated himself with the ideology, they arrived; right on cue. He wouldn’t spend more than half an hour at the park because that’s when the drunkards would arrive, wailing at the top of their lungs ruining the perfect harmony he would set himself in. That day, he felt differently about leaving, he wouldn’t have it, the reckless mindlessness of a few drunken bastards ruining his solitude – NO! In order for his utopia to ever materialize into reality he would have to stand up to these felons. So he tried to confront them. He walked over to the drunken slaves of a false reality and told them to march away or they would have to face dire consequences. He expected them to leave, he expected them to cower in fear of his demand and respect him for his courage. But, they didn’t, before he knew it he was on the ground, head bleeding. One of the bastards had smashed an empty bottle on his head. He was weary and too weak to stand up, and he blacked out.

            The next day, he sat on the same swing, his head bandaged by the school nurse who happened to be passing by. He respected her; she had a calm demeanor about her that enticed him. He clutched an old newspaper in his hands, sometimes enjoying a good read, no matter what era the writing belonged to. As he had expected the drunken bastards returned pointing at him and laughing. One of them laughed so hard he puked. Enraged he was at the sight of uncompassionate mongrels that ruined the everyday lives of the few who still enjoyed their leisure. Today he would stand for his beliefs. Today he would fight back. “Look, look, the little man wants another stitch on his head!” one of the boys said and they all began laughing in chorus – slaves, they were slaves. As he marched forward he felt a hand on his shoulder, it gripped him hard and he heard another boy say, “Wait!” he turned around and saw a tall, skinny boy, with one broken tooth. “You don’t stand a chance against them” the skinny boy said. His eyes were gaunt as if he hadn’t slept for days. “Let me handle them” he said, his skinny hand gripping his shoulder even tighter. What could this skinny boy do? He didn’t look remotely tough. He looked so worn out that even a gentle breeze could have blown him away. But, his eyes they showed strength beyond his physical demeanor. His grip was firm and strong, his voice filled with hate, born from the pits of hell. He could clearly see that this skinny boy meant business. “Why don’t we do it together?” he asked the tall, lanky boy. At this he simply laughed and forced him to the ground. He watched as the tall, lanky kid walked up to the drunken bastards, all the while whistling a cold tune. The drunken bastards pointed at him and were laughing. The tall, lanky kid simply continued whistling, walking with a small spring in his step.

            The tall, skinny kid reached the drunken bastards and waited for a while. In front of him lay a broken bottle, the one which they broke on his head. He watched as the skinny kid picked up the broken bottle and in moments, slashed every one of the drunken bastards’ throats. At first, he was shocked, but then he began to calm down, after all they deserved it. Five drunks fell to the ground, blood gushing from their throats staining the skinny boy’s shoes. He stood over them with the broken bottle in his hand, laughing over their mindless suffering. It was their fault. They should have left him alone! They deserved it. The skinny boy made his way back to where he was squatting on the ground, where the skinny boy had forced him to sit, like a loyal pet dog. Throwing the bottle aside, the skinny boy stretched his hand out and he grabbed it and helped himself up. “This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, old pal.” He smiled and asked the skinny boy, “Your name?” the skinny boy took a few breaths, crushing his hands with a grip that almost broke his fingers and said, “Luke.” They skipped away hand in hand, whistling the same cold tune and laughing as they told each other the tale of the dead drunks again and again and again.

            The janitor, Bruce, stayed late one evening. He saw the boy again, sitting in the park, on that same swing, as it creaked gently. He smiled at the thought of playground joy. He never had much of a childhood, part of the reason he even became a school janitor. The vicarious pleasures of watching the children shout and whistle and sing around the merry-go-round.  Bruce waited for the boy to leave the swing before he began cleaning the playground. He began to rake the leaves that lay on the ground, dry and brown when he came across an old newspaper the boy had dropped. He picked it up, randomly scanning through the page. At the right corner was an obituary post. It was a bout a twelve year old boy who died a miserable death. The year of the paper was 1932, rather old, thought Bruce. He looked at the picture of the boy, his gaunt eyes, and his smile with one tooth missing. He was skinny too. He read the name of the boy, Luke; it just said Luke. He shrugged and threw the paper into his pile of leaves, figuring he could burn it with the dead, brown leaves he had raked up. A cold breeze passed by his left ear and he heard a whisper, of a boy, “You know too much!” he whispered and all went black for Bruce…

********

WISDOM AND A DRUNK

A long time ago in a land far away, there was a village. The village was perfect in all ways. The folk were honest, the folk were happy and the folk were generous. They had but one who smirched their profound perfection. This was the village drunk.

He paid no heed to the common, hardworking folk of the village.  He but lay under a coconut tree, the same coconut tree every day, and sipped from his bottle of wine. As was expected, the village people grew weary of his drunken ways and shunned him from the village. The place he had called home since his birth.

Yet, he would not leave his bottle. The villagers dragged him from his home and out all the way to the village entrance, he clutched only one item in his hands; his bottle of wine. The villagers threw him out and the village elder read the decree that shunned him from his home.

The drunk, with great difficulty heaved himself off the floor and made attempt to stand erect. He turned his back on home, hugging his bottle and began walking away slowly and unsteadily.

As the dusk set in, he grew weary, unaware the distance he had travelled. His concern lay with the fact that his bottle but had a few drops left. Just a few yards ahead he saw the most beautiful coconut tree he had ever seen in his life. He trotted, with all the energy he had left, and reached this beautiful tree and set himself down.

He then realized, again, that he has but a few drops left in his bottle. His thirst grew as the hours passed and the sky turned from orange to black. It was a starry night. The drunk could not take it any longer. He held the bottle to his lips and drank till the last drop of wine touched and soaked his lips.

At this time an old traveller passed by. “Young man” he said looking at the drunk, “Any alms can you spare for an old traveller from yonder?” the old man requested. The drunk, now not so drunk, saw this frail traveller and felt pity for he had nothing to offer.

“Old man, I have nothing but this bottle of wine and it is unfortunately empty else I would have shared” said the drunk.

“Young man, I understand” said the Old man, “I have travelled long and my hunger I can contain, but my feet are weary. Allow me to rest near you.”

“Old man, this is no place of mine. I own nothing but this bottle. You are free to rest anywhere you please”

The old man walked towards the drunk and took a seat beside him. The night was cold and this traveller was clad in nothing but a robe.

“Old man, you have travelled far and wide have you not?” asked the drunk.

“Yes indeed young man I have”

“So you must be wise. The knowledge of many a people you must have attained”

“Yes young man, in my travel I acquired very little barring knowledge”

“Tell me Old man. Who is GOD?”

The old man was shocked at the question. This he had not expected from a drunk. “Young man, you ask not a small question. This is a wisdom that must be earned and I fear I cannot give it to you without a price”

The drunk stared at the old man. This reply he did not expect from one who claims to be knowledgeable. “Old man, you have insulted me when I have offered you a resting place. How is this fair?”

“Young man, I understand I have hurt you. This was not my intention. To put you at ease, I will answer any other question you ask but not this one”

“Old man, I have but one other question. What is LOVE?” asked the drunk. The old man stared in wonder at this drunk.

“Young man, choose your question wisely. I have travelled far and wide. I have knowledge of wealth beyond any King can dream of. I have knowledge of the whereabouts of a land where the rivers are wine and the women are free. Choose wisely”

“Old man, I have no home. I have no desire for wealth or the compassion of a woman I do not care for. I have but a few days before I end victim to my hunger and thirst. I have but one question. What is LOVE?”

The old man continued to stare at the drunk. He then smiled and said, “Young man, I have met many men and not one had asked me the right question. You have indeed chosen wisely”

“Young man, the answer to your question is this. LOVE is GOD” and the old man smiled. His weariness disappeared and he was revitalized. The drunk frowned for he did not understand.

“Old man, what you say makes no sense”

“Young man, LOVE is GOD. LOVE is abundance and it is joy. It is formless and appears to those who truly call for it. There are many ways to LOVE, but remember son, all rivers lead to the ocean. LOVE is bind; it does not understand what you see. LOVE is deaf; it has no knowledge of what you say. LOVE is dumb; it has no language. LOVE is simple; it understands your intention. LOVE is as powerful as you believe it to be; it is driven on faith. In its truest form it can never be tarnished or hurtful. It can only be joy, a bliss that we search for but forget that exists within us. We can give as much LOVE as we choose and there would still be some more left. In fact there would always be even more than we have given or shared. It does not judge. It does not punish. It has no reason”

The drunks’ eyes filled with tears as a realization hit him so hard it was overwhelming. For he was a drunk, but he had loved once; and she was beautiful. He was lost in her. Just as the old man said, he had no reason. Just her presence had made him happy. Alas, she was not meant for him. She ran off with another and bore his children. That is how he became the village drunk.

“Young man, there is a catch. For those who truly want to experience LOVE, we must not let our disappointment, our failures, our anger and most of all, our fear trap us. These are imaginary and temporary. We must just LOVE. For when we simply LOVE, there is no mountain too high or river too deep. Let LOVE guide you out of your fear. Be free my son”

The drunk woke up the next day under the coconut tree, the same coconut tree that he had sat under and drank every day for the last decade. He put the bottle aside and stared at the sun mighty, powerful and ever so bright.

 Within us lies the greatest power that ever existed; an infinite. LOVE.

Take My Hand Susie

Seated very comfortably in a subway station, watching as the trains sped by, a blur, was a beautiful woman. As is the case with most beautiful women, she was approached by a stranger, a man. He gently requested her if he may sit next to her. She smiled and nodded. For reasons unknown the man felt shy, like a child, he blushed. Fortunately, it didn’t reveal much on his face. He took a moment and stared at her. She seemed lost, in a far-away land. He could see the reflection of the train as it passed in her hazel eyes, but she did not blink. Feeling that the moment was moving towards “awkward” he took his seat. He popped open a book and pretended to read, while watching her through the corner of his eyes. She seemed so still, calm, almost motionless except for the slight heaving of her chest as she took slow, deep breaths. She continued to stare ahead. Did she not notice him? What could this woman be so immersed in? He smiled, wondering how a woman he wanted to simply “hit on” ended up stirring up so much curiosity in him.

            Time passed by as he kept pondering, creating random theories in his head; some so ludicrous, they involved aliens. His every attempt to start a conversation failed miserably. He planned about how to start but the words wouldn’t come out. Every few minutes he would open his mouth but the words never came out. Some of the other waiting passengers gawked at him. Feeling embarrassed and slightly frustrated, he decided to withdraw into his book. Few sentences in, he realized there was no point. He was obsessing. He figured it would be best if he moved and sat somewhere else. But, he failed at this as well. He was too befuddled to move. He had to know and yet he didn’t want to know. The line between necessity and desire were now obscure to him. Not a word had been spoken and he was already spellbound. What was this sick, harmonious, deluded and calming magic? Nothing made sense. The gawkers were almost invisible to him. So lost he was, in the moment.

            A few minutes later a train stopped and the most amazing thing happened. She looked at him and smiled. It was the same smile she had given when she nodded earlier. She picked up her bag and walked, ever so gracefully, towards the door of the train. He couldn’t even respond to the smile. Was he so lost? Was he so confused if so, about what? The questions just filled his mind. The train whizzed by and his eyes followed, trying desperately to see her. The effort was of course in vain. Before he knew it, she was gone. He sighed, wishing he had had the courage to lift himself and take the train with her. Just to be near her. He continued to think of her, imagine her sitting next to him; attempting to weave the image, emotions and moment into his head. He suddenly noticed that she had left something behind, on her seat. There was a book, it looked like a diary. He stared at it wondering if he should keep it or leave it. He tapped his fingers on his lap as he contemplated on his next set of actions. The risk wasn’t high, it couldn’t be. She was a total stranger; she couldn’t possibly know how to find him. The chances of him meeting her again seemed too remote for him to worry. He took a deep breath and picked up the book. It was surprisingly lighter than he had expected it to be. The book was too thick for it to weigh so less. His head began pounding, every bone in his body was screaming, telling him to read it. He was never a curious man, and peering into the lives of others was not embedded into his moral code. The compulsion however, was too overwhelming. He decided to make it a win-win situation for his strict morals and his curiosity; he decided to read only the first page. He flipped open the cover, expecting to find a name or random scribbling but instead found a neatly printed sentence. It said, “All in due time” and nothing more. The thick book was empty. He stood still and flipped through the pages again just to confirm he hadn’t missed anything; nothing. Except for the one line, every page was blank. He shoved the book into his coat pocket and began walking out of the station. He knew, beyond reasonable doubt, the woman had left the book there for him. She intended him to read it. What was this trap he was falling into? What illusion was this strange magician playing? 

            It was only when he reached home (the memory of which failed him) did he realize that he had seen the woman before. He just couldn’t figure out where. Was he confusing himself? Was he creating a truth that may never have been, just to satisfy his growing hunger? Did he, in fact, know this woman? Six glasses of whiskey down, he had no patience or energy to think about it anymore. His bed beckoned, the night had grown weary. As strange a day he had had, he had to rest.

*******************

The school yard was bustling with little boys and girls, oblivious to the rationalized consequences of any of their actions; frolicking about the yard, noisy as ever. The boys rolled in the mud, played with the bugs and the girls were indulged in detailed conversations about which doll they should invite for tea. The hustle and bustle of playground life was not a major appeal to all the little kids though. Very few of the other kids noticed a small, chubby little three-year-old with hazel eyes firmly seated in the corner building sand castles in her head; even those who did notice, simply passed by. One of the girls was nice enough to invite her for tea with herself and a Barbie doll. The hazel-eyed wonderer shook her head, rather violently. The nice girl walked away gossiping with her Barbie in a language that no man knew.

This little three-year-old was Susie. Little Susie never liked to play much. To her the games were for the more active minded folk. She preferred to imagine what she could build if the sandbox, in which the boys were gleefully rolling in, was hers and hers alone. She never saw herself as selfish, as for one to be selfish one must have possessions. She did not. This young bird was a wee bit jealous of the other children. The spite was what kept her away. It was any other day, school, the playground and then home. She felt no need to change what she always did; wonder. It amused her. But, little Susie was in for a surprise that day, a surprise that would shake her world and break its very foundation.

It was an unusually bright day; the clouds were floating steady above their heads. Little Susie decided that the sandbox was boring and stared upward towards the clouds. She giggled as little girls do. One of the clouds was in the shape of a cat. She flopped backwards and lay there, staring as the cat floated by, then came a house, next something very similar to a car and the floating cumulus objects continued to roll on. Her eyes began to shut and the weariness of giggling and staring took its toll on young Susie. She dozed away into her Neverland; hopeful to find Peter-Pan and Wendy flying about and ever ready to foil Captain Hook’s notorious schemes. But Susie was awoken by a sudden jerk. She woke up groggy and startled; nonetheless she didn’t throw a tantrum. Above her loomed a figure. The figure wore a hooded cloak, a black cloak. Susie was already afraid, but nothing could have prepared her for what came next, the hooded figure showed her its face. It had none. It was blank and white. There were no eyes, no ears or a mouth; just plain white. Susie tried to scream but the sound wouldn’t come out. She did the only other thing she knew; she covered her face with both her palms hoping beyond hope that this frightening mist would float away, just like the cat, the house and the car did before she was washed over by the lullaby in the winds. She slowly lowered her hands, just enough so that she could see. It still stood there, tall and lingering.

“Do not be scared child” the mist said, in a distant voice. The voice was calming. It was a woman’s voice. The voice gave little Susie enough comfort and courage to fully lower her hands and stare at the faceless, hooded mist. “Take my hand Susie and let me show you why I have come” it said again in the same distant female voice. Susie knew that talking to strangers was a bad thing, but this voice was familiar. It was no stranger. It was just strange. The faceless mist extended a misty hand, or at least what looked like a hand. Susie pondered for a moment, her forefinger pressed to her lips, and then she reached out to the outstretched formless hand of the mist. It gripped her hand firmly and said, “Let’s take a walk”. Susie stood up and nodded, with a smile on her face.

*******************

He needed the day off. The hangover demanded it. He had never drunk so much; the previous day was just too much, although he failed to understand why. The book lay on his table, open. The words on the first page clear. “All in due time” it said. He stared at it, his mind completely blank. For no reason he flipped to the second page and he was shocked. There were words. He was certain that the page was empty the first time. How was this possible? He flipped through the remaining pages and they were all blank. Where did this appear from? He quickly scurried around his house, making sure everything was in order and that nothing was missing. He scratched his head and walked back slowly to his table. He picked up the book and read what was “newly” written:

Dear Howard,

I know this seems strange to you. There isn’t much I can do about it now. I am asking you to remember one thing, “All in due time”. Please don’t ever forget that; for my sake. I feel I am the luckiest person alive. I have known you all my life and now I have the opportunity to relive every moment again. You will understand what I am saying in the days to pass. For now, you must remain yourself. The mysteries of your life will unravel and I will be presented to you, but all in due time. Do not search for me else I will become but a figment of your imagination. You must do what you always do.

Love,

Susie

How on earth did she know his name? Was this some game? He began to think there was a hidden camera in the room. He never knew anyone named Susie and yet, she says she has known him her whole life. Howard looked around and found the whiskey bottle empty. “All in due time” he said to himself. He closed the book and his eyes simultaneously. Why was this happening to him? All he had wanted was a beautiful date for the upcoming weekend and now he had this to deal with. He needed some air. He got dressed and moved out into the street. It wasn’t crowded, it never was. It gave him room to think as he walked. His pace was steady initially but as his thoughts went deeper his pace became more and more irregular. All of a sudden, he was sitting in his room, glass of whiskey in his hand and the book propped open on the floor in front of him.

What does a man do, when he is instructed what not to do? He does what he shouldn’t. Howard, once again, got out of his house and ran to the subway. He went in search of the seat he had sat on the previous day. He kept searching and searching but couldn’t find it. The seat didn’t exist. He grabbed his hair with both hands. He was sure there was a seat where he stood. It wasn’t there anymore. Dejected, frustrated and confused Howard made his way back out of the subway. Just to make sure he was at the right place, he looked back and what he saw was both amazing and yet, impossible. There he was sitting on the seat and there she was right next to him, her gazing ahead. He had to be going mad. There was something in that book. He turned away and walked home.

He was lost. He was home, but he was lost. What did he see? He was certain he wasn’t dreaming, the prickling he felt from the cut on his thumb was enough to prove that. The book lay on the floor in front of him, and the knife beside it. He stared at it. He remembered tales his grandmother had told him about the world of black magic. He never believed in it but after what he saw today, he could believe anything. His breaths became heavier and he began to pace up and down his hallway, blood from his thumb dripping every few steps. Finally he had his conclusion. He picked up the book and flung it out of his window; thinking that there are some things that he just wasn’t ready for, nor did he ever want to be.

*******************

Susie, holding the hand of the mist, watched herself, from a distance, as she sliced the birthday cake in front of her. The cake had a nice fat candle propped on it, shaped as the number five. She was five. She witnessed her birthday as an invisible guest, courtesy of the faceless, hooded mist. She smiled as she watched herself feed her parents the cake. She giggled as she tore open her presents. She had gotten a bike; her first possession. She laughed as she watched herself play musical chairs with so many unknown faces. The mist pointed its face towards her, nodded and said, “We must keep moving child” and began to pull her, or so it seemed.

“Who are you?” Susie finally asked. After a two year journey with the mist, she realized she did not know who it was. Through her two year journey, she had seen everything; her new friends, her fourth birthday, her new toys and their new house as well. She stood witness to every event, every truth. Better still she had watched it happen. It made her happy to know she was her own guardian, her own fairy godmother. The mist turned towards her and bent down, “I am the one everyone knows, yet no one sees. I am the one who brings day and night, I am truth, and I am constant. I am Time, little one”. It took a while for Susie to process the statement. But a five-year-old could only wonder so much. She shrugged and asked, slightly abashed, “What should I call you?” and the mist replied, “Whatever you wish young one”. Susie stood silent as Time pulled her through the vortex of her years.

Susie was now thirteen. She watched as she fell in love for the first time, as she became more and more aware of her body and began to lose sense of who she was in an attempt to find herself. She had many friends by then and she was fairly an independent young girl. She knew how to handle her own work. Her grades varied through the year. She and her mother began arguing more. But why was Time showing her all this? She asked, “Why me?” and all Time had to say was, “All in due time dear one”. Susie did not understand this. There could not have been a more ambiguous answer. But she chose not to argue.

Time now moved her through her teen years and straight into her college years. Here she saw how lost she had really become. She understood, as she witnessed herself that the more people try to find themselves, the more they lose themselves. Time finally spoke, “You see young woman there is no meaning in seeking what is already yours. Finding yourself does not happen. How can you find something that is in you, that is you? As you yourself bear witness to yourself losing your way through the years, all the while hoodwinked by the tune of the pied-pipers flute” and Susie nodded. Time was here to teach her a lesson. She understood that it was not important to find who we are but to embrace who we are. Once we embraced ourselves, then there was nothing left to find. Any road taken became the “road less travelled”.

As Time continued to move her ahead in the vortex, she saw something that drew her interest; it stirred a joy she had never felt. There she sat at a subway station, watching the trains pass and a most handsome young man sat beside her. She saw how shy she was, how she wished to speak but could not. The man simply read his book. He seemed oblivious to her existence. She watched as the train arrived and she left, without saying a word to the man. Who was this man? She had to know. She slowly looked at Time, smiled and nodded.

*******************

It had been a week since Howard saw the diary of “doom”. He was finally recovering from the shock. His work was back on track, his life, back in order. However, at times Howard wished he hadn’t thrown out the diary of “doom”. It was the only thing in his life that made him feel special. Everything else was typical, at least it seemed so. Howard sat, randomly scribbling on his notepad, in a board meeting. He wasn’t a board member, but he was part of a team that was involved in a new product design and he needed to give a presentation. It was most uninteresting, yet indispensable to his work.

Howard slowly took the “stage” and began to explain the market significance and the future benefits of this new-age product. As he went on, droning through the slides and the pictures, he could have sworn he heard a voice. He paused momentarily and looked at the board members, waiting to see if anyone had indeed called him; they merely blinked. He shook his head slightly and continued speaking. Once again he heard it. It was distant, a woman’s voice. He broke off again and looked at the board members again, who continued to maintain their vow of silence. It was then that he realized, there wasn’t a female board member. These were not people who would pull a prank. Was this the diary of “doom” again? He shrugged it off and rushed through the remainder of his presentation. He then told his superior that his mother was unwell and he needed to leave urgently.

Twenty minutes later, he was on the subway back to the station where it all happened. The diary of “doom”, the mystical beauty and his life’s most significant turning point. His stop arrived and he got off the train, wondering about the distant, female voice he had heard. As he walked along the subway his attention was pulled towards the seat he had sat on a week ago beside the mystical beauty; the seat where he had found the diary of “doom”. There it was. Exactly where he had run to, exactly where he had seen himself seated next to her. How was it back? He took off towards it. As he approached the seat, it began fading away and just as he reached the spot it disappeared. He dropped his bag and sighed, ruffling his hair. He slowly began to laugh. He recalled the words from the letter in the second page of the diary: “Do not search for me else I will become but a figment of your imagination” and continued to laugh, quite hysterically.

He was home, drowning in questions, dazed by the events over the last week. Though he remained calm, at least as calm as a man could be in his situation, he was internally disturbed; his life now blown open. To Howard it seemed amusing that his head would spiral out of control in such a split-second. All the signs of mental illness, yet something deep within him knew that he was not “sick” in any way whatsoever. He knew the reality of his experience. He wished he hadn’t thrown the diary away. It wasn’t “doom”, it was priceless. It would have been his secret, the one he would repeat to himself whenever he felt in doubt or questioned his being. He heard it again. This time the voice was not so distant. It was closer, much closer. It was a whisper in his ear. Howard suddenly had the gut feeling to move towards his table. It was as if someone’s heartbeat was calling him. Just as he thought it, there it came, a soft thudding from the first drawer in his desk. It was just like a heartbeat, so much so, Howard was certain it couldn’t have been anything else. He slowly moved towards the desk, every step becoming lighter, as if expecting the drawer to burst into flame, and he pulled the drawer open and there it lay, unscathed and brand new, the diary; the one that was priceless.

Howard picked up the book. It was heavier than he remembered. He began to flip the pages and sure enough, there was another entry. Howard read the words he had been both dreading and hoping to:

Dear Howard,

I know you heard me today. I called out to you and you were searching for me. I was in the room with you, you probably didn’t see me. That’s ok though. You don’t seem to enjoy your work very much do you? I can relate, though I seem to enjoy it a little bit more than you do. I know that this is still weighing heavy on you but, like I said, please remember “All in due time”. Everything has its place in this universe and so do we. Please hold on; for my sake.

Love,

Susie

Howard read and re-read the letter. This time he was sure there were other forces at play. He still had doubt in his mind. Was this worth it? Could this be real? The possibility of insanity could not be ruled out completely yet for Howard. But, he decided to give it a try. There was a fragment of his sane mind that believed this could be real and hence he stuck to his decision. The priceless diary stayed.

*******************

Time had now brought Susie to her elder years. It was peaceful, away from the hustle and bustle. Just the way little Susie imagined it to be. She lived on a farm, rearing the sheep and cattle along with a nice corn paddy. The acres of land surrounded her with scenic beauty and nothingness. The silence kept her from going senile. At sixty, Susie still had the energy of a twenty-year-old and the innocence of a three-year-old.

Susie watched, holding the hand of Time, as the aged reflection that she would be living milked the cattle, and fed the sheep. She watched herself walk through the corn fields; her hands gently brushing the tall grass, its softness making her feel light. “Take my hand Susie and this is where you will be. For Time I am constant and everything around me moves. Let me guide you through the haze in your life and let me steer you away from the obstacles. For when you stand still, you will fail to move past the moments and when you fail to proceed, I am powerless. You must promise me, to walk beside me. Every instance of your life is a fragment of a puzzle which has been cleverly designed by yourself. I am merely here to pull you through it all. One day you will rest and that day, you will see me again in all my glory. I am omnipresent and I cannot be moved from my purpose, for my purpose is to move everything else. Fear nothing; I am here to carry you above the dark clouds above the skies you know. As I lift you only the comfort lies beneath your feet and the gateway to peace is but a moment away. Cherish that moment and you shall remain there”

Susie was about to ask about to ask about the man at the station, when he stepped out of the house, ran towards her reflection and embraced her, arms wide open. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Life seemed so perfect, yet she had seen herself focus on the imperfections. She had been stuck so many times in the moments she least wanted in her life. For Time to teach her such a powerful, valuable and lasting lesson, she was gratuitous.  The faceless, hooded mist slowly disappeared and the vortex was reversed. She aged backwards, and she saw all the moments in rewind. “Thank you” she whispered as she closed her eyes.

Susie awoke in the playground. The children were still frolicking around. She stared at the sky and saw a cloud in the shape of a cat. She would have giggled, but something changed inside her. She had been here before. She knew this cloud; she had heard the sounds before. Why was it all so familiar? Had she dreamt it all before? Alas, how much could a three-year- old, chubby little girl who built sand castles in her head know? For when the moment passed it was time for her to go home and build her own life. One day she would be five and she would have her first bike, one day thirteen and she would fall in love, one day twenty and lost; so much time, yet so little.

*******************

The alarm rang hard. Howard woke up, groggy and hung-over.  His work demanded his drinking. He had it under control, though not entirely. He quickly got ready for work. He was off to the subway in no time and on the way to work. The train ride was mundane as it always was. Work itself was mundane, as it always was. He kept at it with the thought of it putting food on the table. Howard was a practical man who really didn’t have a passion for much. He imagined retiring on a farm, rearing sheep and cattle and a nice corn paddy. He wanted to retire well. He had a lot of fun with his life. He had many experiences. The train stopped at one of the stops on his way to work and a woman wearing a black coat walked in, yelling on the phone. Howard found this extremely familiar. He was easily able to guess her next words. He shrugged it off as a strange déjà vu.

Through his day of work, Howard found many instances that seemed familiar, to an odd degree. He had heard the exact same words spoken by random people. The conversation at lunch seemed even more familiar. This was the exact same conversation he had had before. He just couldn’t remember when. He was predicting everyone’s dialogues even before they said it; in his head of course. The coincidence was uncanny. He was inclined to believe he had been here, in these situations, before. Maybe he was reliving a day. He shrugged it off as a severe déjà vu.

The return train journey was tiresome and Howard took a small nap. When his station was announced he woke up startled and slowly left the cabin. Usually he would walk straight to the exit. For some reason he decided to take the longer route; possibly to have a cup of coffee before he started the long walk home. As he walked, humming a song to himself, he turned his head to one of the most beautiful sights in his life. There she sat, head facing the train as it left. He had to know her. The urge was unusually colossal. As he walked around the seat, he realized that it indeed was the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on. Howard gently requested her if he could have a seat. She smiled and nodded; her hazel eyes ablaze with youthful energy and wonder. He took a seat next to her and pondered on how to engage in conversation. He took one more look at her and he knew what he had to say.

“You look rather familiar miss. Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked, cautiously and courteously. She turned towards him and smiled and said “I’m not sure sir. But, I must say you do look rather familiar yourself”. Howard was pleased with the response. They engaged more in conversation. They discussed books, each other’s childhoods, work and hobbies. Her train arrived and she stood up to leave. She looked at Howard again, smiled and nodded once again her hazel eyes drew all his attention and he forced a smile.

He waited for her train to leave, half deciding to jump on at the last moment. But, he was never a desperate man and he wasn’t going to start then. Just as he was about to leave he noticed she had left something behind, on her seat. It was a card. He picked it up and on it was written her name, Susie and below it was written her number. Howard smiled to himself. “What a day” he said to himself and took leave from the station and began his long walk home.

*******************

Little did either of them know that forty years from them, they would be living on a farm, rearing cattle and sheep with a nice corn paddy. Time has a funny way of playing its game. Familiarity is never a coincidence, what’s familiar is known. How could what’s known be coincidence? The rarity of those moments is what makes it worth the wait. Time is the father of patience. His twisted game would always result in a joyful result. Allow Time to guide and watch as it moves the pieces around and completes the puzzle that is our lives. The mist loomed nearby, its hood drawn down, its faceless form floating about, watching all, hearing all. Its purpose is eternal and constant.