He Bore His Life

He bore his life, taking its hours and days and making, shaping them to a body which stood for him. He had not found reason to live, never sought an explanation for why he should bear this toil or hold, delicately and fearfully, this sharp, cold life. In his dreams, it struck him, drew blood from his unblemished skin and shouted at him to stand. It demanded he accept it. But when he awoke, he was simply left to act himself, to take the pitted fruit that sat before him. Life meant death, and death meant life. He had no knowledge of what the link would be, what would cause the crossing or shatter the life to give death. He could not feel fear, as he could not know why it was good he lived at all. He had no explanation, no hierarchy, no divine guidance. It was all the universe, and he was to contemplate it and draw away an insignificant sliver to whittle, so he had been instructed by the wisdom he collected. It seemed so long and endless, though the end forever loomed and the passage's decoration did not affect its terminus. He could cry and scream and reject it, try to end the procession or step outside the hall, but he would damage more than himself. He did not know the world, did not know its people, did not know himself. He did not believe – or wonder if – that would ever change. There was no prescribed direction, no suggestion box, no fucking flowchart. It was a big universe of space into which he stared out, wondering whether it made a difference how long he deceived himself and forgot the terminus, wondering whether deception was a cop-out or an acceptable resignation, wishing there was some handbook he could consult or manual of instructions. But he had to press on and leave the mysteries veiled. So he had been told, though he doubted the truth of such statements.