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A confession of one individual

There was an old man who lived on top of a tower poised between the Earth and the Heavens. His meals would inexplicably appear on his nightstand every morning he woke up. It was a routine of his before he consumed the flavourful food to take a walk on the Northern battlements, to gaze yonder at the blueness of the skyline's blurry union with the ocean and to daydream about his future departure from this prison.

It is the same hue that exists in this world as it does in the next, a purity silent as the daytime dew. There came a day in which the little old man forgot why the blue was so beautiful. To this, the wind howls as if answering to a primordial cry. And so, he sat on the edge of his wooden bedframe, and he thought. From that world, he has not emerged.

Consider this, reader. A limited lifespan, an isolated individuality, a destitute desire for a simple story, to extract us from one reality to another; to escape, to immerse oneself. The premise of entertainment—a passage of time; a timeless inclination of humanity since its inception. From sport, to storytelling, to creation, these entertainments permeated civilization, culture and the clock's continuance. A nonexistent line between amusement and art.

In the absence of meaning, an inability to grasp the significance of existence, we choose to grasp at straws or strawmen. We avert the thought, we engage with meaninglessness, triviality and our own loneliness, believing that we are content with the company of the human condition. To this, I offer no judgement nor the necessity for solution, for I believe entertainment is a universal coping mechanism for existential crises, an available alternative to truly thinking.

Often, I find myself so engrossed with escaping that I lose sight of my pursuer. Is it the neighbour’s bratty child? The frightening footsteps of a deadline? The looming gloom of life? A fear of the future, the unknown, the unknowable? I lose awareness of the matter that I am even consciously attempting to escape. A nightly routine of turning on the laptop, enjoying a few episodes, onward. What is this perplexing pursuer that I appear to be so confident regarding the existence of?

Dear reader, I ask you this: in the old man's dream, is he sailing Northbound, or is he asleep at all?

There exists not a single being to stop him.

psuedonymph
22 March 2019