https://www.artstation.com/artwork/9mDWGq
The Story
Some stories don’t make much sense. Some stories don’t have beginnings, middles, or endings. Some stories aren’t even stories. Unable to be told, unable to be expressed with words, they pump their truths through the veins of the earth, to fill marshes, feed trees. Much like this stretch of land right here.
Well, one tree. The rest didn’t do so good, clearly. Drowned, I reckon with those dark truths that were too much for them. But that one tree–the one with two prominent boughs shading an otherwise ordinary house where a rundown white pickup might as well have dropped from the sky, because no one, no time, nowhere ever saw it drive up any road–was able to take those truths to grow into something frightening.
You might be thinking, That tree doesn’t look frightning at all. In fact, it looks like a nice place to sit and read a book.
You might be thinking that, but you’d be wrong. Take a closer look. Go on, I’ll wait.
See that there? That thing that looks like it might be a broken branch? Well, it’s not a broken branch. It’s an end. Not the end of this story, mind you. If you think it’s the end, then you weren’t listening to the most important part of what I said, about some stories just not making much sense. Not having a structure to please, to disappoint, to sadden, or anything else that might find its way into the primitive desires of our small minds.
Anyhow, about the end hanging from the tree. Whoever lives in that house thought it was an end. For him. For her. I’d tell you who it was if I knew. It has been an end for many. Such a simple device. A rope tied on itself to create a loop. A circle just big enough to slip over your head, just below your jawline, and step off high enough to make it quick. Easier that way. Less pain. Who likes pain? Do you? Didn’t think so.
You’d like to know what else there is to tell about that rope hanging from that tree, wouldn’t you? It’s not mine to tell, and if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you anyhow. I’m not a storyteller. This isn’t a story.
I bet you wonder what that person inside that old house is doing right now? I bet you have a guess or two. The chimney is a clue, smoke rising up out of it like signals are trying to be made. The light in that window. Is the person up early or up late? Dawn is coming, so it could be either one.
You want to know which one I think it is? Of course, you do. But I ain’t telling. I told you, I’m not a storyteller.
I see you leaning closer, trying to get a better look. Come to your own conclusions and make that story you so desperately seek, because we all seek stories. Wired for it, I suppose. Images, words, patterns. Tell me what story you see.
Want to keep it to yourself, eh? For yourself. I can understand that. You might be self-conscious that it’s not good enough, that this macabre display you see before you exudes so much more than what you can concoct in that head of yours. The key is not to think. Not to imagine. Let it be.
Of course, we can get closer. Nothing to fear. It’s just an old house and an old truck. Sure there’s a noose hanging from that tree, but what if it just looks like a noose from here, and up close you come to find it’s a rope that used to hold a swing. The wind just kicked it up all funny and, from this angle, right where we are, it looks like a noose.
I said there wasn’t a road, but there could be. You don’t look like you have the attire for wading through that marsh. That is, if it’s a marsh at all. Could be a big puddle, an inch deep from the rain you weren’t here to see.
All right, all right. We can take the dry way. Would you look at that? There is a road. Tire tracks, too. The truck must run after all. Strange, seeing things from a different vantage changes the truth. Or am I just pulling your chain? No, I wouldn’t do that.
Would you look at that, it is a noose, after all. Haunting. I guess that explains the visage of Death himself up there in the clouds, rising above that distant mountain. Maybe if you stand here, you’ll see better. Now a noose and Death and an old rundown house with an old rundown truck is a pretty bleak sight, isn’t it? How does it feel standing up close?
I could hang you from that tree. I could take you inside that house and torture you or serve you a fine meal by that warm fire. See what I did there?
I lied earlier. Sorry, but I did. All stories do make sense. It just depends on how you tell them. Where you’re standing. They don’t have beginnings, middles, and ends, though. I was truthful about that. They’re circular, looping back on themselves. The problem is we’re always trying to find those guideposts. Once you shed that concept completely, you see everything how it is.
Still confused? That’s okay. We can talk more inside where it’s warm. Something about the dawn never sat right with me, anyhow. And it’s coming fast. Or is it locked there on the horizon?
Might be a better view from up there on that noose, eh? Go on, I’ll let you stand on my shoulders. You trust me, right? I did lie once, sure, but I came clean. That has to be worth something.
Start over? I already told you there were no beginnings. Just turn around, look back the way you’ve come, and you’ll see.
Go on.
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