I sometimes wonder if there was a time before. Before that great, damning pen swept over us, dictating our shape, our words, our lives. Our world.
Did we exist before? Was there a childhood, an ancestry? Did I have a grandmother, that kind eyed, flutter-winged woman whose dying words left me, and not my cruel stepfather, in control of this struggling country? Or is that all she ever was, a memory? Does it even matter, now that she’s gone?
All we have, all we know, all that is… is what is. To think too hard otherwise would only lead us into madness. Especially in this world we must adapt to living in.
Imagine for a moment what it must be like to be us. You went and created us — or, perhaps, took control. You play with our lives, pull heartstrings, on a whim. Maybe that’s life. But most lives, I hope, are better formed.
My name is Aria. Sometimes Aerya. I think, once, I was Song. I change with your mood, but don’t think I don’t remember. We all remember. And we play your script like puppets, in the moment believing, I’m sure, every word you put in our mouths. But we remember. I remember, for instance, Christophe. My love. My future husband, object of my undying passion, who existed but a day before he faded out, forgotten. You’ve forgotten, that is. Not I. Sometimes I wish I could forget him, that you’ll go back one day and notice, scratch him out, keep him from existing at all.
To live for a day must be crueler than to have never existed at all.
An excerpt of a dramacomedic fiction about a set of characters becoming self-aware of their less than consistent creator. The poem inspiring the story (or was it the story that inspired the poem?) can be read HERE.