The Fountain

Updated December 23, 2009.

So civilization crumbles around your feet but here you find a fountain. In the midst of the darkness, through a path not easily found, you emerge to the greatest fear of darkness: light. Here in this light a pathway of water leads to a tree. In this tree, there is life. Beyond this tree is knowledge. You never knew what was around the corner written on every brick of every wall. How were you to ever know the buildings would crumble and you would have no choice but to start anew? You already drank of the fountain and have no choice but to continue living. You carry the thoughts and dreams. You carry the knowledge. You cannot forget because you drank of the stars and saw too much. You saw too much but not soon enough. Such was a path you could not change. You stand back on the stones so wrongly laid and stare. No rain falls to give you an excuse to stay, or so you would think. There on your cheek is one drop, then two more to follow. Then, as though a painter has taken his brush to you arm, no more than one hundred bristles bound together, it traces down your arms, dripping from your fingertips to find a resting place at your feet. You tremble only ever more as the hair on your neck rises slightly and find yourself sinking; each drop blending into your skin, sinking in and pulling you to your revelry, finding your core and tapping that dream. You stayed for the rain that you waited so patiently for. The rain stays for you, no desire to turn into the essence of what it was. Though you find a tempest blows through what was once still air, you find a solace in the cloak of the evening. There in the rivers of wax that flow from the torches you set alight, you are complete. You live infinitely in the shelter of the fountain, in the boughs of the tree, wrapped in the wings of the rain.

Can it be so cold? Could it be the snow is fighting to enter your presence? Could it be the snow is looking to steal away your rain for herself? That snow that has already made love to the cloud it was promised to, she is here. She is here weaving in words of sounds and music. She says she misses the rain more than you could dream. She is here and she is wanting. She has come to chip away at your armour and steal your rain�"to unite with him and form sleet. In her hopes and grandiose scheme, she will hammer down the sleet upon your heart with no remorse. She will abandon the cloud to which she was bound and spend an eternity beating down upon you. Still, you stand resilient, wrapped tightly in your sheath--wrapped tightly in the evening with your rain. You believe certainly the worst could not, would not happen. Eternity awaits you just on the other side of the streams of wax--you and your rain forever drinking of the fountain. Surely, surely, if the wind could not tear your rain away, the snow could not do even the faintest. “Please, oh please God”, in a soft cry to the night. Don’t take the rain away. Don’t take the rain away. Don’t take the rain. Your selfishness only shows itself this once. “God.” you beg. “God, please don’t take my rain from me.”

Author's Note

I wasn't sure what to list this as. I haven't decided how far I'm going to go with it yet, so it's listed as a story. It started while I was watching The Fountain (hence the title) and it morphed into something more personal as opposed to something based solely on the film. (I consider the movie to be the catalyst that brought this about.) It's probably the most religious, metaphorical, sexual, personal piece I've ever written. As of now, I think it is an incomplete piece. I'm sure I'll continue working on it. If you have any suggestions as to what I should actually list this under, let me know. Thanks.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

"The Fountain" is great movie--one of my favorite, in fact. You say many intricate things, but it would be clearer to me if you watched your punctuation a little closer. In all, it's a nice piece of writing. Should you continue it? Only you can decide that.