User blog:Kat2wind2archer/I need an Answer

"I need an answer"

says the figure to an empty room. Its walls were white, bare. There were no paintings, no memories embodying photographs, nor were there any splashes of colour to admire.

The figure sat, surrounded by a mess of glass and wine-stains. Their hands were dripping with a bright red colour, different from the rest of their surroundings.

They asked, they asked around but nobody answered them.

They were desperate, so desperate. The question was eating them inside out, was slowly killing them like a parasite.

Like a useless parasite that bit into their brain, not daring to let go. Their sharp teeth ripping through the nerves, carefully picking through all the memories-

How was it, that these people knew nothing? How was it, that nobody could answer? How is it, that people don't know simple answers to simple questions?

The question was easy, really.

It was only nine words, everyone who'd had the possibility of living through ten years of their life knew all these letters; knew the sounds, knew the meanings. There's no 'I don't understand', there's no 'what does it mean'.

They wanted an answer to an understandable question; the answer didn’t have to be long. Hell, it could be one word for all they care. It could be something simple, it could be something stupid. A tree, a leaf, a sun a moon a universe a bike a feeling of hunger a nothing-

As they clenched their hand into a fist, the tiny glass shards started cutting through their skin, new rivers of red sliding down to the floor.

The figure knew how a river looked like; it was running water, flowing through a dent in the face of the Earth.

But they didn't understand what it was. What was it running away from; what was so terrifying, what was so horrid that made the river have to run for ages to come? What was the water trying to escape from; was it the steep mountain edges, that threatened to cut them in half, just like an axe threatens a tree?

Shivering, they examined their red limb, hissing at the sight.

Rivers, there were so many rivers flowing out of their currents, so many rivers falling into the deep sea below.

Rivers ran, the rivers flew elsewhere. They went to the sea, they always did. The same water never stood in one place forever. It didn't want to. It was scared, it was just scared of the sharp mountain currents and painfully cold air.

But the rivers on their skin, the rivers sticking to their flesh, the-

It's not a river. It's not a river, it's not a river. it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it' not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not ariver it's not a river it never was a river it's not a river it is a river it is a river I think it's a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river stop telling yourself that it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's sad it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river never was a river it never was a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river stop stop saying is it is a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river it's not anything it's not a river it's not a river it's not a river I don't think it's a river it's probably not a river others won't call it a river but it is a river it's a river it's a river it's a river because I call it a river it's a river because that's what I say it's a river because it is an

Why did the figure stand in the room

Why is the figure in the middle of a mess

Why is the figure melting

Why is the figure broken

Why will it become nothing

Why will it stay in the white room

Why is the white room bare

Why is the figure unhappy?

Because I made it do that.

I made the figure do what it did,

I will make the figure do what It will do,

I will make the figure do all it has done,

Because it doesn’t have a choice, because I gave it life, I created the white room, I created their river I broke them apart I asked them a question-

A question only they know, a question I will never know, a question they won’t tell me the answer to, a question that broke the character just as it has broken me.

They know the answer, but they can’t tell me. They do what I say, they are what I tell them they are, they will be what I make them to be.

They don’t know who I am, they don’t know they don’t exist they don’t know what I do, they don’t know that they haven’t got a single free-willed choice in their life-

And they don’t know the answer to my question-

No.

They know the answer, they just don’t realise it. They know it, but they aren’t telling me.

Th figure stands in the empty room, surrounded by a mess off glass and wine-splatters in the carpet.

But the glass isn’t that of a bottle. It’s the glass from the only picture frame in the room. The wine splatters aren’t those of the figure; they’re from the bottle in the cellar, that’s yet to be consumed.

How is it, that the room is bare, empty, and yet there’s glass from an old framed photograph? How is it, that the stains of an unopened bottle of wine litter the carpet below?

I don’t know, but the figure does. They just don’t realise it.

They will die of confusion, they will die because that’s what always happens; they’ll die because I made them. They are dying, because it’s me who placed the framed photograph in the empty room, it’s me who purposely spilled the unopened bottle of wine.

It was me who asked, it was me who was curious, it was me who wanted to know the answer.

And now the figure wants to know too, because I made them.

This is all so devoured of sense, there’s no existing logic to explain this; this figure’s birth, life and death.

Logic is a coping mechanism for the human brain to not be scared of everything that’s surrounding it.

It doesn’t exist, and it won’t help you now.

I am a god and yet I know nothing, I know nothing that could help me right now.

I asked this question- the figure heard it once, it hears it now, it’ll hear it forever;

What is time for something that exists beyond it?

My figure knows the answer.

But one cannot tell it if they're dead.

And I'll never know the answer, I'll never be aware, because my figure, my creation, died within 1271 empty words that fit on a tiny slip on paper, and yet at the same time could be written across the whole face of the Earth.

Tell me.

What is time for something that exists beyond it?