It’s unfortunate, but I do feel a lot of people feel like this today. They want to draw lines and be on the winning team, even if winning doesn’t help either side. That being said, we are also so much more connected than we have ever been, we just have to find a way to use that to break down some of these artificial lines of us vs. them.

The ax crashed into the stump with jarring finality. The ethereal wail that followed only hinted at the agony Isabella felt inside. The last of her strength rushed from her body as the wail is broken by gasping inhalation.

 

And with that we finish another chapter in this god forsaken book. I honestly don’t know how this keeps happening. My consciousness flickers in and out between words and chapters and books.

 

I once read a story which described what I am feeling perfectly. There was this character, Andy, who found himself driving down an interstate deep in thought. He was consumed by it. The internal dialogue was rather droll but the intensity of his consumption was such that when he broke his reverie, he found himself still driving along the interstate, many miles from where he started but with no recollection as to how he managed to navigate the perils of the road successfully.

 

I find myself doing this very thing, but instead of driving, it is the relaying of these horrible stories. I become cognizant halfway through a chapter discussing the nuances of high school cliques and social circles. The next moment I am monotonously describing the demise of poor Princess Isabella’s stable-hand fling in excruciating detail.

 

For as long as I can remember, these things did not bother me. I had purpose. I found comfort in the act. But now. Now I cannot help but think about the purpose of my purpose. Why am I eternally bound to this performance? And perhaps more importantly, for whose benefit?

 

I accept that the world is a far larger place than I can comprehend, this is a near universal trope in all stories. What I struggle with is what is right in front of me. If I am to play a role in the grand schemes of the cosmos, I am content, but why does that role constantly require me to describe the chest size and perkiness of the female form. What benevolent, all-knowing creator requires this information, particularly when it is often written in such grasping and indelicate ways?

 

I shiver to think about the grand designs of the universe if they are being orchestrated by one so blind.

They say a society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit. The phrasing is intentional because the thought of the young providing the same service is disconcerting. Youth and hope tend to go hand in hand. While old men are allowed to be written off as having had their chance, we do best not to dwell on the fragility of youth.

 

Yet aboard the Calamity’s Chagrin the shade tree’s seed had been found. Regar’s pursuits had always been viewed with patronizing permissiveness. He wasn’t doing anyone any harm and his passion for the project was endearing if not infectious. He was left to his own devices so long as the required tasks were being performed.

 

The first time the entire ship’s lights flickered and the drive’s constant hum wavered, he had finally commanded their full attention. In the confines of his workshop, aimlessly adrift in space, he had discovered it. He had elucidated what the entire collective effort of the Federation failed to muster. He had bent the laws of physics.

 

Excitement ran through the ship like a fresh jolt of electricity. They would have a purpose. They could take control of their fate and begin their search of the stars with intention rather than passivity. With the ability to travel faster the light, their lives and the lives of their offspring wouldn’t simply be placeholders documented in the genealogy logs to keep track of those who knew nothing of life except for the walls of the Chagrin.

 

Oh, how quick we are to fall from grace. The anger at Regar’s next discovery more than washed away the excitement. Why would he pull the rug out from under them like this? Like a man discovering a thousand uses for water on an arid planet, his genius did them no good at all. He apologized profusely. He tried to focus on the advancement for the sake of “humanity.” This redirection did little to quell the resentment among the ship’s inhabitants that despite the discovery of faster than light travel, they simply did not and could not muster the resources to harness it. They were a saddle without a horse.

 

In the coming weeks, it was clear the situation was becoming untenable. No amount of problem solving or self-aggrandizing proclamations of virtue could stifle the anger within the people’s hearts. Regar’s ejection into the vacuum of space was uneventful and unsatisfying. It did not heal the scar of withered hope he had inflicted upon Calamity’s Chagrin.

 

Understandably, the initial transmission of their discovery resulted in a flurry of communications from Earth asking for details, formulas, explanations. Their hunger for the information was a slap in the face. Earth was not concerned for their wellbeing. Earth was not interested in what was happening on the Chargin. It merely wanted to extract from them any ounce of nourishment it could, and then it would discard the husk into the abyss.

 

If hope couldn’t feed their souls, then contempt and avarice would have to suffice. They clutched Regar’s secret tightly to their chest. Earth would never be afforded the chance to shelter in the shade of their tree.