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Mr. Hyde
April 5th, 2005, 08:04 PM
Something I hope to submit to some contests if everyone deems it good enough, if not, I'll keep it for when I'm renowned enough to submit pure crap and people praise it. ;)
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It was a rainy day in August. The sort of day where it was raining, but the sun was shining. Down south, there was an old wives tale that days like this meant the devil was beating his wife. I was standing on a bridge, umbrella out and smoking as usual. Despite the rain, or maybe because of it, it was a nice day for a walk. Maybe because the rain kept most everyone inside, so I was free to walk uninterrupted. It is days like this that I spend thinking about life, and my role in it. I hadn’t written a story in a long time, and since I had always believed my purpose was to write, I started feeling I was losing my purpose, and life has a way of doing away with things that don’t function.

Since my shoes weren’t water proof by any stretch of the imagination, I was stuck with soaking feet and that wet sopping sound when I walked. It’s really distracting, annoying, and damn near impossible to ignore. I had disagreed with my Existentialist upbringing in that it purported that man had no purpose in the universe, that the world was irrational and absurd. But, today, such thoughts were unavoidable. If I could no longer write, maybe writing “wasn’t” my purpose. But if it wasn’t, what was? “Did” I have a purpose? Living without a purpose is like riding a bike without a seat, you eventually get used to it, but you’d much rather have that seat so you aren’t always getting stabbed in the ass. Plus, the seat, the purpose, helps ease the stress and pain that those bumps in the road provide for you.

I fettered a thought for a moment. Holding onto it for dear life I had glimpsed that I did indeed have a purpose. If for no other reason, I was alive to find a reason to live. This it seemed to me was a universal answer to living without reason. Like, instead of the age old question of “Why are we here?” being rhetorical, it was actually a literal question that I had answered. Man’s destiny is to search for a purpose. Then, of course there is always that second question that comes when you believe you’ve discovered what man’s purpose is, and of course, it contradicts the discovery. You think, “I figured it out, so my destiny must be to tell others what man’s destiny is.” Of course, if man’s destiny ‘is’ to search for a reason to live, then your fate would be no different, in which case, the discovery isn’t a discovery at all, unless you consider that it really ‘is’ man’s destiny, and that yours exists outside that realm, but what makes you so special? Why should I have been any different?

A small boat passed under, and acting upon a sudden desire to discard my umbrella in favor of feeling the rain, feeling nature, feeling alive, I wiped my finger prints from the handle and tossed it down onto the boat as it passed under the bridge. It didn’t hit anyone, not that it would have really mattered since they’d never find me anyways, but I suppose that would have been considered somewhat malicious if it had. Dropping the butt and walking on, I drew another cigarette and attempted to light it. Lighting a cigarette in the rain is tough, but not impossible. You just hunch down a little to keep the rain and wind off the flame for a second while you light it. Thinking back on my writings, there has always been a desire for me to write an original piece, but such is quite impossible in the modern age.

The simple reason being, that by the time I came to be, and certainly by the time I was able to write, everything had been written. I could create names, places, and plots, but they wouldn’t be any different than any other story except that the names had changed. I could write a crime drama; take my pick of plot and story progression; it had all been done before. There were a thousand stories about gangsters, renegade police, loose killers, grand chases and plot twists, etc. What separated them wasn’t originality anymore; it was simply complexity and method. Even that had grown to its limit where anything resembling it would be considered passé and cliché. Then there was the occult. There were countless tales of vampirism, lycanthropy, and so on each with their own little niches and twists. Each more outdated and copied than the next.

What was I to write about? Looking back, I remembered reading of a time; as such a time had long since died before I was born, when the only thing that was cliché was originality. The over induction or originality had made it in and of itself, unoriginal. It was such a literary conundrum that it caught me instantly. It was almost a chronologically produced phrasical oxymoron of sorts. There was a time when crime novels were few and far between, and each offered a sort of uniqueness that inspired. Now, authors had entire careers devoted to certain subjects of writing. Books have become organized by genre rather than quality. Of course, who could judge quality when everyone has different tastes?