There are no more references. The universe attempts to find its own center, but its hands stretch endlessly, intersecting themselves and painting cosmic futility on the canvas I have brought into existence with this imaginary observation. Every narration begins with an I, and ends with an I. Events imprint upon the readers as picture frames of my ordinary imagination, clawed on by the nails of reality, as if reality were a woman in the dune, an object that has no other reference but itself, entrapped in a recursion that regurgitates a situational loop, sequentially growing larger in size, the cyclic nature of all matters temporal re-asserting itself to the patron saints of nihilism and optimism alike – here, look at me, I am the cynic and I stand for what is, and I accept myself only with careful scrutiny.
But can narration consist solely of interlocking ideas, as a mechanical contraption fueled solely by metaphors and cold, lifeless imagery, devoid of the finer and not-so-fine emotions, the warmth of her embrace, the despair at distance, the ruthless scheming anger at fate, attempting to rework its fabric and foil its designs, replacing them with one’s own and imagining the cold heartless satisfaction which is probably the least emotional emotion, the most fragile and precious one, that of triumph over an equally supercilious destiny? There are men who challenge other men, there are men who challenge themselves, and there are those who challenge the most probable future with a far less probable version of their own.
He did not understand what a ‘man’ was, even though he constituted the very textbook definition of one – made up of a pair each of hands, eyes, legs, ears, nostrils, genitals, feet, and one each of a head, neck, torso, nose and a brain and a heart, amongst other things, all governed by a singular will to tread forward. His brain was solely concerned with coordinating his movements appropriately – it did not serve any other purpose, it did not generate any other thoughts except the ones that occasionally arose as reactions to his environs, and most of all, generated a signal that synced with the organ providing nutrition, oxygen and warmth to his battered body through several tubular channels via fluids colored in varying hues of crimson occasionally tinged with blue – a signal that came with a footnote telling him never to turn his head backwards, or to look over his shoulders, or to walk in the opposite direction in which he was currently headed.
If he had ignored this subtext, a sea of humans would have been visible to him – humans who had been following his lead as long as he had been walking. He did not know the meanings of the words ‘messiah’ or ‘leader’ either, but he was one in the same fashion as he was a man – his unwavering resolution, albeit unreasonable and unfounded (or rather precisely because it was thus) elevating him in the eyes of his followers who never for a second doubted his sense of direction or the promise he symbolized, the strength radiating with such intensity that his ragged appearance only served as a shade lest the ones following be blinded by it.