A True Story Yet To Happen ^©

The End.

Long ago, when I was too old to walk, I was running on the streets of a place I’ve never been to. Now I realize, though, that such a time hasn’t come yet. And I clearly remember some men on those streets informing me that such a realization is insurmountably easy. But I neglected what they said as I could not hear them, and anyway they were silent. Well I was going round the city on its straight roads.

Then a child, who was looking older than me, and who was clearly trying to avoid me, came to me and after telling me that he didn’t exist, gave me a red box which was looking green. Out of fear (of what could be inside) I opened the box only to find a bigger box inside. And this continued. I opened all such boxes till I found at last a box so large I could barely see even using a magnifying glass. On opening it, exactly infinite men came running out of it each holding exactly zero green looking red box in his hand. On a closer look I found that each of them was me. We all started running backward around the city so that one could get ahead of the others. But the first became the last and the last became the first again and again. So, after getting tired and wondering what to do, all of us went inside the boxes we were holding, but it was all in vain - all the boxes were the one and the same from inside. And, all those other me were only my reflections.

The same old child who was completely different this time, went away from me, & gave me a non-existent red box which was also looking green. Wanting to get rid of the box, I tried to open the box but I could not open it as it never existed. Frustrated I threw the box toward myself and the box burst opened. This time the box was completely empty. It was so much empty that it did not contain even ‘nothing’. Annoyed and surprised as I looked down, I found that ‘nothing’ was up there. So I lifted myself up in order to grab that nothing and put it into the box. But as soon as I put nothing into the box, the box had everything, including me. So I had to pull myself out; and then we both started a conversation. Obviously, I found that I was not speaking at all as there was nobody to hear.

But our conversation was nevertheless recorded by the child, who was neither same nor different from his previous two appearances, and this recording is now known to be a very famous epic. This epic has only three pages. The first page is blank, the second page is blank and the third page contains the reason why the first two pages are blank. And the reason is this that only the first two pages comprise the epic and are to be read. Reading the epic since the time it has been recorded, I have not been able to finish it in thousands of years.

So, one day I decided that I would not read it anymore. And now I seem to be very close to finishing it. But again the same old child met me tomorrow and told me that I could never say with certainty whether I’ve finished reading the epic or not. On asking him how much uncertain this uncertainty was, he told me that it was as uncertain as uncertainty. This delighted me. But I was again filled with gloom since I found that the existence of the child and that of mine were blending into the same uncertainty. I asked him if it was possible that we two were one, he said that it was not possible since we were not two. Knowing that I was filled with joy and sorrow. This happened a long time before I ever was and at a large distance from everywhere I've ever been, but since then it’s happening every moment and at every place. And since then every moment has become the ‘present’ for me and a ‘present’ for me. Every ‘then’ has become ‘now’ for me and every ‘there’ has become ‘here’ for me.

What I’ve said is not a truth. I never speak the truth. NEVER.