A Twisted Echo

I once heard someone compare the human mind to a man isolated on a deserted island. This isolated man would scream out to the foggy sea, and he could hear the voices perhaps of others on their own islands. He could hear them. Although he may come to know them, love them, or hate them he could never truly bridge the gap of the sea between them. 

It brought the man a small comfort that although he was alone there were others perhaps that shared in his toil. For many years it was enough to simply hear the voices of others. In all that time a thought haunted him whenever his body was alone. A thought carried on the wings of paper through time.

“I think therefore I am”. He would ask others of this thought, and he had the impression that it brought them a sense of reassurance. To the man it brought only doubt, and fear. He thought I know I am on this island, but how can I be sure the voices from across the sea are from ones such as me?

Although the voices I have heard, the bodies I see appear as I, is there any way for me to be sure they are real? For many years this thought assaulted him from all sides.

He came to many conclusions. Perhaps although their bodies differ it is me. Separated by time I lose myself, and from one body to the next I speak to myself again, and again.

Perhaps there is no one else besides me. This world I see is an illusion I have created. The people I meet are all empty. I hear but an echo singing back to me what I wish to hear.

Perhaps some are filled with things such as I, and some are empty…

He hoped that they all have things such as himself. To his great suffering he could see that hope in himself. How could he believe something he hoped beyond hope was true? A comforting lie is twice as cruel as an inconvenient truth. Although he found a seemingly endless supply of answers not a single one brought him any satisfaction.

Over time the man saw the world through a different pair of eyes. The world so full of anguish once troubled the man greatly, and now it bothered him less. The kindness of the world seemed brighter. Its vividness overwhelmed most other things.

He thought to himself. Why when my mind is so troubled does the world seem so much brighter than it did before? After many hours dwelling on this very thing he came to a rather astonishing conclusion. If there is an island behind a single pair of eyes it is as I am.

In the world out there they communicate through such broken tools. Language is but a fraction of communication, and there are mountains of things it can never convey. The body speaks truer than any word, and yet it is raw. This raw nature makes it so hard for even the simplest complexity to be conveyed.

With rocks and sticks such as this it is a miracle anyone is sane. You see all suffering comes from the simplest of roots. We can never truly bridge the gap of the sea between us. Behind every cruelty is a man on an island driven mad by the distance of the foggy sea, and behind every kindness is a single moment where the islands are so close someone can see the silhouette of something in the distance. Or the world is wonderful story I tell myself to ease the condition in which I am afflicted.

Whether one be true, both, or neither is it not better to let our limited moments dwell a little longer on the brightness then the dismal dark? I am a flawed creature inside a flawed creature surrounded by a thing I may never truly understand.

I hope something such as I may one day hear these words across the dismal sea that separates us, and know that although I may never meet you I too am here. And although the world from time to time may seem dark it can be bright if you let yourself see it.

 

Sincerely, and forever hopeful,

A twisted echo from across the sea