Lucy Kwan, Period 7, 3/7/22

 Lucy Kwan, Period 7, 3/7/2022

Creativity & Fiction

White

Maybe that’s the only color in Everything. Maybe that’s every color in Nothing. I slow my pace and draw my gaze backwards, counting the trail I’ve left behind. One step, two strides. Three years, four eons. I make up my mind to sit and rest, but the ground is bare and uncomfortable without any support for my back. So I toss around, eventually lying down and blocking the blinding white with my arms. 

I think of a time – a life, maybe – when I was not lost wandering the whiteness. The artificial darkness reminds me once again of the past, no, pasts I’d forgotten. 

There was the immortal savior, humanity’s light. A figure of legend, the pure half balancing out the evils of the world. I could picture the glint of jade in their eyes, feel the breeze of mountainous winds in their abode, smell the drying ink of myths being written in their name. But despite what my memories were showing me, that was not “me.”

Then there was the serpent calamity, humanity’s destroyer. The great “evil” forever fated to counter the savior. I felt the pain of being trapped in darkness for eons, the resentment towards humanity that prided itself on false righteousness, and the jealousy of a being that would never be understood. But despite what my emotions were telling me, that was not “me.”

The third memory is of their meeting. The immortal, humanity’s pride, directly opposes the serpent, humanity’s fear. Their first battle is not a pretty one, and it lasts longer than “I” could care. The immortal’s pristine image is stained by the blood on their hands. The serpent’s resentment is weakened by the chance they are given. By the end, they reconcile, and the balance of the world remains the same. Until one betrays the other, and either the world becomes pure or everything is destroyed. I can’t recall which event actually happened. Maybe it was both. 

The fourth, fifth, and sixth memories are the same, but different. The savior this time is a king, and maybe the calamity has become an evil witch. Next, a great god and a demon. And so on and so forth. By this point, I am no longer paying attention. After all, I already know the ending.

A savior, a calamity. Endlessly locked in suffering. Sometimes they switch places, sometimes they switch back. It’s always the same end, though. One loses, one wins, the world gets destroyed, the world gets saved, over and over. And once everything is gone, the cycle starts anew. The savior and calamity stand opposing once more, but this time I am merely an observer. This is the final memory.

“I don’t want to save the world.”

“I don’t want to destroy the world.”

“I don’t want to be a cog in this twisted machine.” 

“Then let’s leave this place.”

I can’t tell who is who. I can’t even tell where this memory takes place. I see a hand reaching out, and a hand pulling in. Dark and light, mixing into gray. A blissful consummation of two that were never meant to combine. The story ends there.

Their story.

My sleeve shifts off my eyes, and I open them again. I get myself up from the ground, dust my legs of nonexistent dirt, and continue my arduous journey. Perhaps one day, I’ll be able to reach the place my existence wants me to reach. Perhaps that place doesn’t exist at all. I walk forwards, for that is the only meaning I can find in this emptiness. 

I walk forwards, towards the absence of color, or the presence of all colors. 

I walk forwards, towards the White.