If you have been agreeable to the prospects thus far I suppose there is still hope for my story---for the preceding chapters while necessary to portray the origins of Alek’s rational, or irrational thinking, I’m afraid I have misled you. Or it is that language itself binds me to a faded contract. Most certainly you will be relieved to hear I will attempt---I say attempt, fully aware of my inexperience with this---to dispense with the academics and get right to the carnality. But for goodness sake, I cannot altogether do away with the exquisitely unintelligible meat of intrigue embedded there. After all there is the academic setting to be navigated.
So, I will digress a bit...
This story in a sense is my own life flashing before eyes. No, I am not yet dying. Yet, the reader must sense I expect them to be a “super reader”, able to see through black holes, to dodge the careening non sequiturs, or the lack of a singular vessel of controlled writing. But life itself expects us to veer through a swirl of differing demands does it not? One acquaintance demands such and such an assumption and another demands something altogether contradictory. We are to constantly interpret our contacts and the occasional obstruction, and thus must once again reevaluate our understanding of what it is to be engaged in a conversation, much less be at peace and in communion with another, an other who is also by nature an interpreter of life’s situations.
And so my textual vagaries exemplify perhaps the mind of Alek, or Dhyey, or Detective Smith. Yet these three are all in an admixture of their own vortices and pressures to resolve something. It is our deigned task to leap from some impossible descriptive ground to find a stabile foothold for them on an uncertain and vacillating target. While all along we can only wish for our comfort to return with an added satisfaction that we made it back from some unique challenge. What then can we learn from Alek or Dhyey that would empower us? What have their lives told me to tell you? Sadly, I must say with no equivocation here that their lives thus far are a facade, that even I whom you have entrusted with this have had to distort the truth to tell the ultimate truth, the truth of my own original shudder at the full fact of their sudden transformation in my eyes, the shift of their reality and thus my realignment. Who indeed were they? It was as if they shifted like the paradigms in Alek’s note book. What once wed the oceans with the sky is now a fertile estuary. One day the barrier to our destiny is a strait, then come the next sunrise it is an isthmus.
Alek, of course I never knew; but I felt I had learned enough to leave off questioning too much the basics of his existence. He was a university student who had experienced the most shameful of accusations, plagiarism. And whether they were truthful or not he must have suffered greatly from their persecution, such that one might suggest he displayed many of the characteristic symptoms of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. Again, to retrieve the full story of someone’s life we rely on so many others’ stories, which both confound and compound even a normal individual’s perspective. What then shall we accomplish with an one who constantly relives his own past? And so I continue now at once like an hourglass, then without warning like a nozzle, then a sieve, hoping not to have accumulated in the end nothing more, by your summation, than a putrefying landfill. Better to turn it over and make of it a literary compost.
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