Mystery

Death

Some religions believe that after you die, you get reincarnated as another being. Others think you go to Heaven or Hell to spend the rest of eternity. Some believe that your soul will be weighed with all the sins and good stuff you did in your life. Me? I've never really thought about it. It scared me, to say the least. Or maybe I couldn't grasp the thought that life could be taken away at any moment. Whatever the reason that was because of, I would've expected to see at least something. Whether that was a god telling me I died, or a demon welcoming me to the underworld, I thought that–on the rare occasion my train of thought dared to take me there–that there would be someone to lead me into the afterlife. Someone to say, "It's going to be alright." Someone, to give me an explanation. 

But, as I stand alone in the middle of the street, with no memory as to how or why I'm there, I might as well be dead. A clean slate. Reborn. The streets are empty, devoid of life. There aren't even birds chirping. The feeling is odd, yet peaceful. The only information I have is that something happened. 

Whether that something was good, or bad, well, that's for you to decide my reader. As we are all the main characters of our own stories, and only you can decide how it ends. If it's with an epic battle to the death, where you end up making the sacrificial move to save all of humanity, or the entire universe! Multiverse even! Or, you're in bed, surrounded by your family and friends. Maybe you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe fate decided to throw the roughest Monday you've ever had at you.

The question isn't how, why, or when you die. It's if you ascend to the highest of beings, and control it. Make it bow before you in fear. Have it bend to your will and do your every bidding.

This, my faithful friend, is called writing.

I've always wondered…

I've always wondered how authors, movie writers, and play directors get their ideas. Is it a stroke of luck? Did the fates decide to grant them a special ability? Or, are they the souls of all the characters they've written. Do they exist to tell us the stories to infinity and beyond? To somewhere over the rainbow. Or in a galaxy, far, far away. Are they a vessel for communication? Is the multiverse trying to tell us something? Are all the stories out there in the world, true? 

Is there really a war in the stars going on? Are our toys coming to life behind our backs? Are there painfully obvious superheroes hiding among us? Are there hedgehogs that can produce sonic booms? Is there a whole world of wizards, hidden behind a brick wall, and you just have to run through it? Does every high school burst out in a musical every day? Does all power have to come with responsibility? If that's true, then who's the imposter among us? Are our lives being written down by a higher being as a story? Is every story just a biography? Are you that person that anyone can identify by a catchphrase, or an article of clothing?

It drives you mad thinking about it. But, all the best people are. 

Fandoms

If the big bang created everything, then what created the big bang? If the big bang created everything, then are soulmates just particles that were created near each other. Are fictional worlds created the same way?

Do they suddenly just pop into existence? Or, maybe we are fictional characters in our own fictional universes. There are some pretty weird creatures and phenomena out there that could only be thought up by someone with the utmost creativity. 

If we're just fictional characters, then how big is your fanbase? Is it filled up to the brim with fangirls and fanpeople, and then the rarer fanboys. Is your fandom filled with people who ship all the characters together, or are you in the one that there's no escape from. Or, is your fandom filled with people who are still mourning the loss of one of the characters. 

Or…you don't know anything I'm talking about, and you're not used to words like; ship, fandom, fangirl, fanboy. You probably just want to live your life in peace, without the unnecessary complications of wondering why we were made. How we were made, and if we're even real. Maybe we're just all made to live, until we die. Is that all we can achieve in our lives?

The Cat and the Rain

The lonely cat stared through the murky rain-stained window. It sat upon a pillow with its eyes as cold as stone. It’s gray, moonlight fur, shimmered in the dim light of the room. A single raindrop scattered down the pane of the window. A glimpse of the street light was seen through the scattering maze of what the cat thought was tears. It was a crisp, cold rainy night with a rain cloud looming over the small street they called Candlewick Close. There was no moon on that evening, nor stars, but instead, just rain. This cat had been in that same spot for hours, just as the rain had. It had felt compelled to the rain when it first came and felt as though they could keep each other company as if maybe the rain could help with its problems. So when the cat saw how the rain had waited right there for hours, this cat started to think it had waited for them. That same dim light that the street light had given off flickered, making the room the cat sat in appear suddenly dark and suddenly bright again. The cat however appeared as if it was unaware of such changes as it continued to stare out of the murky window with its stone cold eyes. It was almost as if you could see this thought looming over the cat's head. What that thought said, no one was sure of, but anyone who could see it through the window when that streetlight was on knew that it was nothing of peace, and only of war.

Newspaper

Everyone wanted me to let it go, but I knew I was onto something big when I found that newspaper and saw its main headline. It confirmed something I was hoping could not happen, would not happen and should not happen. Everything could change now. No more certainty in my voice, my thoughts, my actions. Just one more question mark to add to the list of life. Thoughts swirling like a tornado, pounding like a hammer, screaming like an infant. All of the what ifs came rushing back, all of those possibilities now a certainty because of a newspaper headline. Because of me.

That 3-inch Box

The box, a 3-inch square covered with butcher block paper, has been sitting, unopened at the table for 29 days. Everyone had their suspicions, their thoughts, their wonders, but I knew that there was one person who knew what this box was about. For 29 days this very small box had people pondering about what was inside, but nobody dared to open the small box for they feared of what may lay inside. I knew the time was coming soon. I wish the time would not come so soon. Everytime the church bells rang, thoughts began to spiral. Question marks floating in the air. Whispers start just as rumors appear.