I’m writing this in pitch black. My screen is on its lowest setting. My paper is black and the words are white, as contrast creates chaos which creates creativity. Or so my mind might want to think. My bed has 5 pillows on it. Two of which I sit up when I write. One of which sits on the side of my bed against the wall and seems to sit in silence waiting for me to actually put it under my head at night. The other two pillows are decorative. They are larger and almost always find themselves on the floor at the end of my bed, which happens to be right next to my bookshelf which holds over 200 books, half of which I haven’t read yet. Above the bookshelf on the left sits a wall with photos of Paris which happens to be right next to a window that overlooks the forest to the outside of my house. The photos of Paris counter the inevitable chaos that sits around my room. Papers line the floor with thoughts I had at midnight last night etched in odd pencil marks and ink spills. My clothes from the last week happen to be scattered on Ikea chairs and my desk which holds a couple books and pens from last year looks on in utter disarray. As I write this I understand that my room is something I care about. And yet, I don’t. The idea of nothingness has captivated the way I decorate. And maybe that’s the issue with aesthetics in my own world. I want to float, and the mirror that sits above my dresser that’s covered with more clothes and books, next to a drawer that is sat upward, with newspaper clippings plastered to the bottom and my trophies and medals from my soccer career scattered among it all has caused me to think a bit harder about the way I look. The way I dream. The way I want to move among the world. Music from my headphones playing from odd radio playlists on Spotify seem to echo the dreams of a world I haven’t achieved yet. And maybe that’s the whole reason I write. Maybe that’s the whole reason my room is perpetually messy, but never dirty. Maybe that’s why my world is so captivated by the way music captures the essence of an aesthetic. And maybe that’s why I try so hard to write late at night after listening to music for an hour that’s meant to cause me to dream a bit harder about a world I want to live in. Maybe, or maybe this thought experiment is too odd for anyone to understand. But in any case, I still have over a 100 books to finish by the time I move out to college and beyond, and I still have chores to do in the morning. And an essay to turn in tomorrow. And so many things that counter the idea of an aesthetic, and yet I chase it.

She makes me want to sit at the piano and smash the keys in jazz chords I've never learned in a moment of viciousness that cracks the very fibre of my skin under the weight of my insurmountable fear of rejection. A fear I've never experienced and yet hold so dear to my thoughts it infects the very being of myself. A fear I could never want to understand, because she's there, and will be.

Just as the world before me fell, and the world after collapsed, my world became erased in a matter of instantaneous luck. The fire of a thousand years before fluttered among the stars, befitting the simplicity in science not seen since the stone age. The stars fell. The moon shattered across my night sky filling my eyes with a glimmer of light and just as quickly, an essence of darkness.

As the stars fell I saw a moment of peace among the world. Our dreams became one. Our desires none.

The lampost outside my window stopped shimmering for the first time in a generation. the world stood still in that moment, and my world imploded in an instant.

The stars that fell echoed a time before me in which my ancestors saw them as dying angles. The stars provided hope and light in an ever dark night sky. The night spared no cover of fear or life for the world was only spared by the dreams of another. Another life; another world.

A dream was an escape, not just from the world they lived in, but from the death night brought.

The fire that fluttered showed me how our would unfold. Perhaps there would be light, but the light would be burning. Forever unceasing in eternal hell. Or perhaps the fire would shine forever, illuminating our future enveloped by darkness, yet held by light.

I'm scared of the moment in time when my world is shown the cliff. The time I have is no longer the time I want and the time I want is no longer fair. The simplicity that my world used to be is not a place so simple anymore. The time I fetched my thoughts in the back room of my apartment last night is so distant from the moment I spare right now. Its as distant as the space between eons of time. The moment has passed by and the seconds have ticked on beating like the heart of a man about to die. Slowly and so off beat you can count the breaths and the pauses each minute on a finger. Time is what we thought we had and then it disappeared. Time is the space we lost long ago and regained so recently I still hear stories of it. Time had disappeared and been brought back to life as the stories of Lazarus foretold. It was lost, and then found, and then lost again.

It seems the story I've told to this point borders the infinitesimal details that no one cares about, and the mantle centerpiece everyone is thinking about. It's a story I've wanted to tell and haven't found the words. And yet, now, as I've found the words to tell a story the story seems to take too long. The story is too broad to narrow into a short story, and yet my writing skills can't write long enough yet. The story itself isn't boring, it's magical. It's dangerous. It takes you to the ends of earth and back to the beginning. It allows time to stand still and yet fly by as quick as you utter the word "you". But this description bears no assurance of power in how this story will turn out. So it's probably best to start over. Start at the beginning of my words. To bring about a new story borne from the last that causes us to examine the very fiber of the language we speak. It's etched upon the thoughts already, so now it's time to speak and read the thoughts of a past story so far away it seems minuscule in meaning, but just as tilted in power as a man becomes corrupted.

Just as the world fell before me. The time of a thousand years came to a screeching halt as the world burned. The story is best told from the perspective of a man named Zeke. [ How should this go?]

The only way a story can understand its power is if you understand what happens after. After all the pain and suffering that your story might cause you examine the world that grew up. It began to move at the pace of light. Innovation flooded our world in a manner we had not seen before. People were enlightened. And not in the way John Locke would be considered. No. People were brought to another plane of existence. Where you could see the intersection of time and space and matter. The end of the universe extending past the space we thought we understood. We began to see the divergence of thought that my world first expected. People were either enlightened or they suffered. You can't understand how to survive in a world full of creative majesty when you don't understand why your plants won't grow in the dark. When your thoughts are being occupied by matters of the self and lusting after false identity you lose the way people should interact and how people do interact. Loss becomes normal to you. Fear becomes happiness. Without fear the world burned around you. But with fear your world can be livable. But on the other hand, a world being livable does not mean it is fruitful. It doesn't mean you understand your place in it. It just means you can survive. But would you rather survive or thrive? Would your world be better in ruins that you live under, or castles you built?

My world is scared. We read of stories of a fire so astronomical it created a chasm between time and space and reality. It forced the beings of another world to be separated form us in a way we don't fully understand. The world I longed for would not come in my lifetime, but rather in another's lifetime so distant from my own I can't even fathom. People think in my world. They dream and figure problems out. But there are always problems to solve and not enough people willing to solve them. The story of a world being split into a chasm of darkness is a story most people don't believe. But then again, what better way is there to make someone afraid of the darkness than to make them believe the darkness isn't even there. My world screams for a time in history where we could exist in our own minds. Where the thoughts of another generation didn't infect our very being and our essence of life. But, that's just my world.

Thought - This is the first idea of a story. A man telling a version of the universes life through his perspective. Stories of a thousand millennia ago in which the world became split form the very fiber of being it had so long existed within. Time and space existed and then became split. And then again in his world. But, as is all things in life it comes back around. And then he tells the story of the future. Himself existing outside time and space so that his perspective is not shaped by something you think you know. But rather, the lens through which he can view a world still split by darkness, but being brought together by creativity and thoughtfulness. Just an idea I guess.