CONTINUE? 3… 2… 1…
Fragments of road flickering past through momentary panes, squeezing back against taut leather. Stare and reflect, and make up the time — so that we can come back, come back a little sooner. Until we arrive, meandering across the green fields, stiff grass pointing to that bluest sky. Cumulus clouds like puffed cotton candy. Winding down towards the old château, into curated gardens of foxglove, daisies, and rambling roses.
A lone plum tree grates against a technicolour world. Almost makes you forget a fixed frame of reference. A curious redwood, its trunk folded horizontally into a sine wave, as if it had to waver before deciding what it wanted to be. A moment to sit within an oriental pavilion overlooking a lake so serene, something to envy. The cicadas chirp silently, rhythmically — lest we should forget time’s relentless march.
There’s a question that’s been sitting in the back of my head, Tom. I just can’t seem to get it out, no matter how hard I try.
Well, go on then — let’s hear it.
That’s the thing, I can’t put my finger on it. Like, I had this packet of popcorn the other day — you know, the ones that are already popped for you. Well, anyways, at some point there’s something in the back of my molar, and I couldn’t for the life of me pick that thing free.
The popcorn is a metaphor.
Yes, the popcorn is a—anyways, it goes something like: you start off right, and you think things are done in a certain way. And you keep on working like that, to do things the way you’re supposed to, you know? But here’s the thing: it’s only by the final act they reveal the game’s been played a different way. I don’t know, maybe I’m not making sense.
Why, you sure spend a lot o’ time in that head of yours. I’ll tell you something… insanity, it’s a relative state. But anyone would go crazy sifting through these sorts of thoughts. There’s an easy fix — stop asking so many questions.
You know, I still can’t figure out what’s better — knowing it all, or not knowing a damn thing. Problem is, now that I’ve seen it, I can’t seem to look away. Can I ask you something? Do you mind if I ask… what is it that keeps you going?
It’s changed so much over the years. I guess at this point I’ve had to refine it into something rather immutable.
Yeah… and what’s that?
All I know, is that it’s all we can do, to do all that we can. When there’s something that makes you different, you have to work so much harder just to put yourself on the map. And when you get that lingering feeling that you can’t go on, that’s when you have to reach further. You can’t give them any excuse to make you lesser. And the more resistance you face, the more you better reach, because there’s always more reaching to be done. And then you can say proudly: yes, you may have done this, but I have done everything else. And after all that, you might get there and still think it’s not enough. Too much, or not enough. It’s a fine line.
But aren’t you tired?
Tired of fighting?
Am I even allowed?
Allowed to be something more than I am?
He stood up alone. Looked to his left, and then to his right, and picked up a folded map bundled in the back of his jeans. The answer was still not known, but at least the question was certain. That, and the cicadas punctuating the day in unaltered cadence. They were there somewhere in the tall grass, behind the thicket of conifers where light didn’t seem to penetrate. He turned away from the red pavilion, the map still perched on the bench where he was sat, and marched onwards into that inviting darkness.