There once lived a man who every man that has and will ever exist could ever wish for his wealth and power or comprehend it. No man was like him, and no man could be like him and not a thing that exists could be as significant as his own existence. He breathed meaning and purpose in everything he touched. He was not a giant or anything godly, he was, as far as he and the world knew, just a man. A man blessed with so much wisdom and creativity that he changed the whole world. In his time and all the times that followed, his technologies and inventions shaped human kind forever. Nobody knew his real name for sure, he never gave it. Every citizen of the planet, from every background and culture, referred to him simply as Paul The Great.
In his nights of victory and success , never failure, he was consumed. Everything he did or pursued was a success and he considered it his offspring. He never had kids of his own, not because he could not or couldn’t help those who couldn’t (therefore himself) but because he never thought of it as fair. What was this thing that is called “life” ,he would contemplate. Although he never failed and was perfect in every way that the universe could allow, he couldn’t answer that most fundamental question of existence. Essentially to exist is to live. He educated man, gave him and taught him anything he would need to fend for himself and advance civilization but for him the cause of progress was a lost one. Not one with meaning, no end – no point.
Paul had problem that eluded him and puzzled him the most. Even with his ingenuity and wisdom he could not solve it. You see, he was unable to be happy or sad. He felt numb and vacant. He never got to see the angels or the colors that make the world shine with beauty. It was all grey and gloomy for him. So he dived into the vices and aids that would help him feel anything. His first choice was drugs, as much as he can get and as extreme as they can get without losing himself. He sought help from professionals, the best that was available. Still, he remained gloomy.
“There seems to be nothing wrong with you at all,” they said, the men in their cardigans, gold rimmed glasses, with feathers on their heads or those in white coats. They did all they could, traditional and experimental. Still the world remained tasteless.
He hired artists from all over the world with all sorts of talents (singers, dancers, fire-breathers, jugglers, comedians, bands, singers, groups, orchestras, actors etc) from the eccentric to the common.
His reasoning was that art is the best medicine. It makes us act in ways never thought possible, reflects humanity and transcends any world of logic and understanding. His problem was of the same nature, elusive and incomprehensible but very much present. Maybe art would help. Maybe art will reach out to him and open up a layer of his being he hardly visited. Excite some part of him that the science in the world failed to recognize.
At the end of all the mediocre, interesting, puzzling and masterful performances he sat on the balcony with a glass of whiskey dangling in his hand and watched the sunset from his balcony.
His maid ambled over from behind, stood and watched with the same thoughtfulness and quiet. After moments of silence, she quietly asked, “Sir, are you feeling any better now? Any different?”
There was faint smile in his face, very distinct to him all the years she had served him, “As well as can be expected.”
“It did not work?”
“No, not at all.” He sighed. He turned to her.
For the first time she could see traces of what looked like peace on his face, not lifelessness. A knowing of some kind.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
He did not respond for a while, until, “You can go now. I will see you all tomorrow morning.”
The next morning Paul was found hanging in the entryway to his balcony. He had killed himself.
On the floor there was a note, it read:
This is what I am. That which does not feel.
I hope I did not upset you. This story was meant to be a story that one of the major characters in Before the Cult, my novel, tells the main character. It was supposed to have a major significance. For some reason I can’t recall I did not include it.
You can find a lot of meaning in this story, a lot is imbedded in these simple sentences.
If you would like to discuss this I am open to discussion, email or comment.
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Deity forged architecture
Swirling in and out of form
Enveloped in the arms of dark matter
Towers…mercurial and flowing…” – Agalloch ‘Birth And Death Of The Pillars Of Creation’