We all have oceans of unfinished stories and we can’t escape them. The pages are given to us the moment some tough little sperm creature bashes its way into an egg and starts a journey that releases ink onto the pages. Given this, some would say our stories started with the first of these meetings a thousand worlds ago…and that we’re all part of the same story with each of us contributing our own sequels to a Grand Telling with all the voices of every storyteller through the ages brave enough to exit the womb. And this makes each of us a storyteller, continuing an epic with the stories of our own lives…the same story…from infinite perspectives. And I can’t believe that peace can’t be found somewhere in that common denominator of the epic. So I opened myself to the telling, to the voices, to the daily finishing and finishing and finishing of each chapter in each story in each voice…and I heard a voice resounding through the ages, crossing the potholes of time and the waterslides of the temporal universe. It was loud enough to shake the ground and rattle my soul into thinking…this is so fucking cool…peace has to be somewhere in this voice. Problem was…I couldn’t make out what it was saying. The words were disjointed and slurred. Confused. Desperate. And just a little bit pushy, like a drunken panhandler stepping out of the boundaries of politically correct begging. But who was I to judge a voice that could rattle my soul and shake the ground? I opened myself to the voice, to all it’s blustery bits of verb and noun and split infinitives, none of which could arrange themselves in my ears in such a way that I could scrounge a shred of coherency from that jigsaw puzzle of verbal diarrhoea, and I was beginning to think that peace was a bit confused about how it should sound. That’s about when the sound stopped, the voice died away, leaving a miniscule pattern of laboured breathing. I waited a few minutes, listening to the laboured breathing as it gained a slight rhythm of stability. And it occurred to me that it was finished. It had delivered its message I all the entirety of a unfinished movie. So I said the only logical thing that came to mind:
“Could you repeat that?”
I sensed a vile exhalation of disgust and the voice evaporated into someplace where I’m sure nothing made sense.
“That was weird, Biff,” said the fox.
“Yeah, not exactly what I expected,” I said.
“What do you think it was?” said the fox.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I have a feeling that peace is beyond any arrangement of words into a story.”
“So…” said the fox.
“I think peace is the story,” I said, “and when I find peace, I’ll find the story.”“So?” said the fox.
“The search continues,” I said.
(To be continued, once again.)
“Awww…” said the fox. “Not again. You can’t keep…”
“Think of it as…an adventure,” I said. “A story unfolding…chapters winging it mindlessly through the days.”
“In other words, you really don’t know what you’re doing,” said the fox.