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More from Strype
There is no greater lie than the one people convince themselves must be true. As such, young one, we expect at the end of this journey that neither you nor I will have ever existed.
Every lie as we both know, holds some modicum of truth, some restless secret that presents itself to us, calling to trial what is, what could have been. As a chronicler of sorts then, I am now called to tell you a tale, young one. There may be truth to it, there may not. That will be for you to decide. For it is ultimately not the source of our confinement nor the circumstances thereof; rather a means to escape to better days for who are in-between worlds like us.
It is not easy, and we both know this. The stories I have collected over the years, we survive them each generation. They come to us when least expected, to fill the desires we bury deep in our hearts, they marry us to the joys of discovering the kindred souls we grow to love in time. These stories are what heal the same wound we bore, young one, and they are lessons we stumble upon from the unlikeliest of people and in the strangest of places.
So, dear child, there sits before you a criminal – by all accounts whose journey can only end in death – with a lesson on surviving what is expected of us to never survive.
I stand on the shoulders of those who set the foundations for my survival. I am here to do the same for you. There is much you have not experienced because of this war, my child. The situations you may encounter in your future will challenge every part of you, of which these stories may offer you insight. A story cannot be killed or captured. It is our transport across time and space, across people and places. I wish to take you back to a different time in our history as we continue our ascent towards the end.
The world was quite different when I was your age. War was a thing of the distant past and the future remained endlessly hopeful on the horizon, past the curves of the foothills, beyond the jagged edges of the Rockies cutting into the sky like pearly teeth. Summer stayed cool enough to bear midday heat, and winters cold with ample snow. The world was full of adventure and opportunity, but also danger and deceit. Life was much different back then. We were filled with stories of joy beyond grief, of love beyond loss, of hope beyond despair. They marked the way through the darkest of nights, a lighthouse awake in stormy seas to guide us home.
The death of storytelling is the final signal of a society plunging into the maw of greed and self-destruction. The care that is put into the story of someone or something teaches us to listen with our ears, our minds, our hearts, and our souls. A wise old person long ago had taught me this important lesson. Our existence is no question that can be debated with good faith. It cannot be agreed or disagreed with; we are as material as fur and flesh, as blood and bone. And if the powers that be choose to believe otherwise? Power can convince the small-minded that reality can be manipulated, and those who worship power will always do their best to bend our existence to their desires they demand of the world. This is the affect of history we both carry with us, young one. Despite this we have always survived. Have faith; you will continue to do so.
We read and write, tell and listen to stories to remind us of the meaning of survival – this is another lesson I was taught. Medicine, law, business, engineering; these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain our society. But stories, poetry, beauty, romance, love – these are truly what give one life. Even when the world seems harsh and unbearable, life is always still worth living, and stories always worth sharing. There is something beautiful in it that will feed something else, in a different time or place, that will sustain the roots for someone else to survive, and someday, bloom.
This story I give to you with love, my child. Let it set your mind adrift in the hope of better days not behind us, but ahead. Let it kindle the little joys where grief demands order. Let it give you sanctuary in the sensations of home when you feel lost. Perhaps that would be where we shall ground ourselves – at home.
Hush now, wander a moment with me.
Our tale begins in a time long before yours. An unassuming little house tucked away by the dark arm of night, in a small bedroom. A boy not much younger than you are now, lies tormented in sleep. Some have said his dreams were merely electrical signals the brain invents, to keep him from becoming lost in a death of sorts. Others said the dreams could tell him prophecies, visions of the possible futures that could materialize should the circumstances be just so. No matter, this boy dreamed on. He looked out beyond a casement window. Clear as day. The air was silent, the sidewalks still. A chance glimmered temptingly between the panes of glass.
Perhaps this time, it would be different.
Perhaps…
Every lie as we both know, holds some modicum of truth, some restless secret that presents itself to us, calling to trial what is, what could have been. As a chronicler of sorts then, I am now called to tell you a tale, young one. There may be truth to it, there may not. That will be for you to decide. For it is ultimately not the source of our confinement nor the circumstances thereof; rather a means to escape to better days for who are in-between worlds like us.
It is not easy, and we both know this. The stories I have collected over the years, we survive them each generation. They come to us when least expected, to fill the desires we bury deep in our hearts, they marry us to the joys of discovering the kindred souls we grow to love in time. These stories are what heal the same wound we bore, young one, and they are lessons we stumble upon from the unlikeliest of people and in the strangest of places.
So, dear child, there sits before you a criminal – by all accounts whose journey can only end in death – with a lesson on surviving what is expected of us to never survive.
I stand on the shoulders of those who set the foundations for my survival. I am here to do the same for you. There is much you have not experienced because of this war, my child. The situations you may encounter in your future will challenge every part of you, of which these stories may offer you insight. A story cannot be killed or captured. It is our transport across time and space, across people and places. I wish to take you back to a different time in our history as we continue our ascent towards the end.
The world was quite different when I was your age. War was a thing of the distant past and the future remained endlessly hopeful on the horizon, past the curves of the foothills, beyond the jagged edges of the Rockies cutting into the sky like pearly teeth. Summer stayed cool enough to bear midday heat, and winters cold with ample snow. The world was full of adventure and opportunity, but also danger and deceit. Life was much different back then. We were filled with stories of joy beyond grief, of love beyond loss, of hope beyond despair. They marked the way through the darkest of nights, a lighthouse awake in stormy seas to guide us home.
The death of storytelling is the final signal of a society plunging into the maw of greed and self-destruction. The care that is put into the story of someone or something teaches us to listen with our ears, our minds, our hearts, and our souls. A wise old person long ago had taught me this important lesson. Our existence is no question that can be debated with good faith. It cannot be agreed or disagreed with; we are as material as fur and flesh, as blood and bone. And if the powers that be choose to believe otherwise? Power can convince the small-minded that reality can be manipulated, and those who worship power will always do their best to bend our existence to their desires they demand of the world. This is the affect of history we both carry with us, young one. Despite this we have always survived. Have faith; you will continue to do so.
We read and write, tell and listen to stories to remind us of the meaning of survival – this is another lesson I was taught. Medicine, law, business, engineering; these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain our society. But stories, poetry, beauty, romance, love – these are truly what give one life. Even when the world seems harsh and unbearable, life is always still worth living, and stories always worth sharing. There is something beautiful in it that will feed something else, in a different time or place, that will sustain the roots for someone else to survive, and someday, bloom.
This story I give to you with love, my child. Let it set your mind adrift in the hope of better days not behind us, but ahead. Let it kindle the little joys where grief demands order. Let it give you sanctuary in the sensations of home when you feel lost. Perhaps that would be where we shall ground ourselves – at home.
Hush now, wander a moment with me.
~ ~ ~Our tale begins in a time long before yours. An unassuming little house tucked away by the dark arm of night, in a small bedroom. A boy not much younger than you are now, lies tormented in sleep. Some have said his dreams were merely electrical signals the brain invents, to keep him from becoming lost in a death of sorts. Others said the dreams could tell him prophecies, visions of the possible futures that could materialize should the circumstances be just so. No matter, this boy dreamed on. He looked out beyond a casement window. Clear as day. The air was silent, the sidewalks still. A chance glimmered temptingly between the panes of glass.
Perhaps this time, it would be different.
Perhaps…
Category Story / All
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