Tale of The Hollow Scribe

It was a world one white in color, as big as the seas itself, it was filled with books, some were just floating around others were placed neatly upon cubic bookshelves, it was a world of books, of knowledge and information. The bookshelves moved in all sorts of directions, up, and down, right, and left, forward and backward, even diagonal, and sometimes you could see some disappear and reappear on the other side of the world.

Bubbles floated inside this world of white, and as if by some force they touched a book and they were absorbed and a new book appeared, seemingly out of nothing. That very same book now in existence turned into a small bluish colored shard, a shard that shot its way up all the way to the sky, only to be stopped by some invisible killing all motion and momentum, only to join several hundred more pieces in suspension. 

But if one were to look up they could see pictures of things that have adorned these walls, some new and some even older, there were maps of new worlds, pieces of Lovecraftian horror, an odd mask, and even a door that had the wheels of a clock, and all sorts of other things. They looked odd as if they were drawn, by the hands of a child, not by an adult, yet beautiful nonetheless.

However if one were to look completely up they could see an azure blueish frame that looked like a puzzle that spanned forth the entire sky. Pieces from all across the world began to find a place, becoming a part of the puzzle. The puzzle itself had the edges done, and more than half of the inside was done, leaving only a chunk of the inside. And just like any puzzle the inside is always the hardest part.

"It feels different today. Is today the day it all starts, I suppose if you wish to word that way, he had already set this in motion a while ago." My voice echoed, filling the boundless world with sound, my body gaining some semblance of a physical form. "Come on Kaes, I need to find you soon."

"Wait a second, I remember this. YES, yes I said this, no I wrote it down." I say as I wave my hand and a bookshelf that is held inside a cube comes out of the surface of the world and rises before me. It was draped in chains and a sign reading: "OPEN ONLY IN CASE".

SNAP

With a snap of my finger the cube shattered revealing the bookshelf for the first time in a while. There was only one small book inside, and I pulled it out, and on the spine it read only one thing. 

Tale of the Hollow Scribe

I kicked my feet only to feel a force like gravity overtake me and try to force me into the ground and so I fell, only to fall into a bean bag, and as I opened the book my eyes began to drift from each line to the next. Only to see the…past, everything that I was, my hopes, and my desires. I see every word you saw, every word you are seeing, and every word you will see.

How my story began .

Where could I say my story began, my birth no, the day I was born nothing world changing happened, not in the hour, not in the minute, I was born I was just born. 

Some people say heaven clapped when they were born and for others hell screamed. But for me I don't know which one is true, I'm too kind to be a demon, I'm too ruthless to be an angel. I reject myself in every way possible and I feel like I'm losing it. 

I'm lost.

Do I think I'm special for that?

The answer to that is no.

When I look around and see those who walk beside me I just feel like one of many, that just maybe I'm not the only one losing it, that I'm not just the only one in a war with themselves constantly fighting over and over and over again. But it's odd, I love that I'm losing it, perhaps because it gives me hope that I haven't felt in a long, long time. 

Hope that this world can be more, something greater filled with impossibility that our minds could only dream of.

Hope that I can be more than what I just am, and that I won't just fade away into nothingness.

Hope that I will no longer be what I am, 'Hollow'.

Ah it appears I got sidetracked now, back to what I was saying.

So if I had to say my story began the moment I gained consciousness for the first time, I can't remember it as clearly as I would like, but I know that I was in kindergarten and that I didn't know anything, not my name, my parents' names or their looks. I didn't know who I was.

I was lost waiting on something, somebody to tell me something.

I was just this blank sheet waiting for something to paint upon me and deliver purpose to me.

I don't know what I was waiting for, to be honest, but I think I'm finding that out.

As time went on I had moments I'd never forget, I lived, I died, I was reborn, and yet it feels like I haven't changed. And I gained something similar to an outer shell of a turtle, it was full of moments of joy and happiness and then my own traumas. But still I was always lacking the inside, like there was a piece missing, something so important that without it I…was empty.

Ever since I was a child, the world bored me, it was filled with this sense of repetition, and I came to have this epiphany that my mind never really…belonged here, it belonged elsewhere. It belonged in the sky with the clouds flying zooming through the sky. I was stuck everyday dreaming of a world more exciting, one where I was free.

Free from society.

Free from the rules.

Free from all of it.

Even if it only lasted a minute, it felt so much better than to be stuck in a world so… boring. I had no worries, no bills due next week, no 9 to 5. I could soar through the skies, I could feel the wind against my face, It didn't matter if I was a bird, man, angel, or demon. I knew at that moment I was free from it all.

It was a utopia.

Reality bent to my will in any way I saw fit. 

I was God.

Only to fall back down into this world that…I had forsaken. A god turned into a mortal, it was cruel too cruel for my heart to bear. 

And yet I did it over and over and over again everyday, nothing could stop me, not even me. Once my mind got a taste of it, it couldn't stop, it wouldn't stop it was addicted, no, addicted isn't the right word, yet neither was obsessive. It was a mixture of both, I couldn't stop, yet I wanted to, and yet I didn't want to.

One of my most important memories was when I learned what Santa Claus truly was and it nearly broke me, it was like a part of me was crushed, no it would be better to say ripped out. I've thought about it for a while, and now I realized why it hurt as much as it did. Santa represented in my childlike mind a symbol of hope of impossibility in a world limited by possibility. Santa did what no one else could: he defied possibility and limitation.

The realization told me something that this world is limited and caged and that therefore I am trapped and that this cage will one day be my grave.

I don't want it to be. 

The cage must come down, it must.

It must be shattered the roof, every bar, even the foundations themselves.

And only he can do it, only he can. 

Ah, that's right, I haven't yet told you my name, have I, well you can't really know anything, not yet anyway, so please for the time being, call me Samuel. I am nothing more than a writer, a storyteller if you would, and your guide, throughout this story that spans forth eternity.