Pebble Story/Monologue Collection

SjsharksBoy

Mr. Mu (August)
I’ve been thinking about randomness. About how such bizarre, disconnected acts, takes the most precious thing one individual, all individuals, possess and takes it and throws it against the wall as if it were some worthless toy meant to entertain an hour. How this randomness works in tandem with time, squeezing every last ounce of this jewel out of each possessor.
But is random really random, or does everything have a purpose or meaning that we just don't see? ^.^
 

a pebble

Strategos
Beyond the Beholder

I never expected to stare out into a storm and think it beautiful – never thought that staring into the midst of one of nature’s desolate manifestations would elicit the idea of beauty. Yet it did. The rain, with each drop pouring down from the sky, brought with it its own modicum of glory and singularity which, when working in tandem with the others, created this symphony written by the sky and performed by the ground.

No, I never thought that I’d imagine such beauty in the grey – such beauty in the despair. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, that beauty itself is no more an absolute than any other opinion. Nothing so concrete or black and white as any other fact or time-tested proverb. Beauty, to them, is much less than anything eternal, anything beyond and above the scrutiny universals.

But are not all things seen as beautiful for the same reasons? Are not all beautiful things called beautiful for a reason? That a waterfall shall be beautiful for the way the water tumbled down the cliff face? How a quaint road under cover by a lining of a canopy of trees is beautiful for how the light trickles through the gaps between the leaves and dances with the shadow? How a man or woman has just the right complexion and temperament to elicit the brightest of smiles or the shyest of grins? Are not all these similar in some way?

Why is it that the waterfall is beautiful? Or the lights between the trees joyous? Is it not that each are distinct? That it creates such a level of uniqueness that the only proper response is of wonder? That something or someone could be beyond the norm – exceptional? Exceptionalism is the only proper determination of beauty. Is not any love between any two people beautiful as it is unique within itself as compared to another such love? Is not the rainbow beautiful as it is seen so rarely and each is just not quite like the other?

So no, I disagree that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This would imply that beauty is subject to individual interpretation. That with one individual, beauty would exist yet with the person standing right beside, beauty would not. I would wager that beauty is in all things, yet the capacity to see the exceptionalism behind it is lacking – that seeing the beauty present is simply beyond the beholder.
 
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dezXIV

<img src="http://i1210.photobucket.com/albums/cc42
Interesting point at the end there. At first I thought it was soley pedantic- that you just were trying to say that beauty exists in everything- but that's not it at all. You mean to say that beauty is the same to everyone, just some are unable to think deeply enough to percieve it. Very interesting to think about it in that way, it gives a great perspective on life. If someone can find beauty in something, you can too, if you open your mind to it. Great read, pebs. One of your best yet, imo.
 

a pebble

Strategos
Interesting point at the end there. At first I thought it was soley pedantic- that you just were trying to say that beauty exists in everything- but that's not it at all. You mean to say that beauty is the same to everyone, just some are unable to think deeply enough to percieve it. Very interesting to think about it in that way, it gives a great perspective on life. If someone can find beauty in something, you can too, if you open your mind to it. Great read, pebs. One of your best yet, imo.
I was hoping that would come through. While I was trying to say that most (arguably all) things are beautiful, I was mainly going for what you said - that it exists no matter if we perceive it or not and that we can perceive it if we only try. Thank ya Dez ;)
 

a pebble

Strategos
Misery

Sadness achieves nothing, they say. Sadness as nothing more than a futile state of being purposed to immobilize the joyous. “Be happy” they say, never knowing that happiness is often seen as unattainable or that others have very different goals than to be happy and that most often happiness is rarely a byproduct of the result desired. They say happiness is the end goal, the grand conclusion everyone vies for and should achieve should they only try.

But they’re wrong. Happiness is not always attainable. It is arguably the most elusive and erratic of any state of mind and, at its core, provides nothing more than a smile. And what of a smile? Does this truly make a life better lived than another? Does this state truly begin to grant the worth to an individual that it was ascribed in its definition? Happiness grants so little beyond an enjoyed life. I don’t want an enjoyed life – I want a distinct one.

Sadness grants nothing? Really? Is that what we’re going with? Wallowing in sorrow lends itself to nothingness? No. Not at all. Sadness is the motivator of ideas, the son of necessity and, by extension, creator of the creative. Sadness is the necessary follower from a need being unfulfilled and sadness motivates those needing to find a means to fulfill it. It, by very nature, inspires novel ideas, speaks volumes to the hearts of the broken who then write them down.

Sadness is the catalyst to uniqueness, the stimulus to distinction, and the spark that starts the fire of greatness. Sadness grants acuity – strips away all other fillers such and joy and allows one to see the gray in order to shed light upon it. All happiness is the same, so blindingly ignorant of life and pain that they often look at those triumphant in sadness and see them burdened and suffering. They try and strip away the motivator toward everything they are- every idea and concept that built them from the ground.

I like being sad. I enjoy the feeling deep down that there’s a pit no one can dig out of – I enjoy what ideas they bring. And if for a moment I believe that that brings nothing? If I suddenly agree with those preaching happiness’s sermon, what then? Only then is my sadness truly worthless. Only then will my life fade from distinction and cease to be what I desire. I lose the ability to create under the light of something as grand as sadness. That, I fear, has already happened to most.

We’re so consumed in the search for happiness that we often forsake that which we dreamed of. We wanted to be great! We wanted to be the best there ever was or will ever be. But we let go of the dreams because we realized they didn’t make us happy at some point in the process. We realized the process was difficult, saddening, and instead of pressing on and utilizing the sadness to perfect ourselves and achieve the dream we crafted we walked away – we left our dream for something easier yet less ultimately satisfying. Something we’d love for something we’d eventually despise. We traded momentary sadness for a lifetime of miserable, temporary happiness.
 

dezXIV

<img src="http://i1210.photobucket.com/albums/cc42
Sometimes we make our best work when we're sad, sure, I won't disagree with that. But I think that we can make better things if we're happy. Not completely happy- so bloated and full of joy that we feel no importance in causing change- but when we have something, someone, and the joy they bring, we can meld our sadness into a tool to attempt to work it away, and we accomplish more than before. We don't trade in our dreams, because I think that's truly when you die, but instead we work around them. Yes, there will be times when we are too happy to pursue our dreams, and I think that's also bad, but without some happiness, you can get caught up in the futility and desparation of life and end up abandoning what you once held most dear.
 

a pebble

Strategos
The "Hollow" Variable

It isn’t common, yet is seen every day. Stuck between the lime light and the shadow, this state of being hollow lies just enough in secrecy and silence to remain unnoticed, yet all the while strip away the life from its victims. Seen as a choice rather than an infliction, no cure is ever made beyond proverbs and maxims decrying and defaming those too empty to feel and too dulled into apathy to heal. This hollowness variable – the one multiplier in the social equation which inevitably results to zero.

We’ve tried to coach it, wish it away with love and excess of tears, yet it remains buried down below beneath the soot and ash of a world once brimming with life burned down by the one-time idealist turned cynic. Our remedies try and flood the afflicted with emotion, none of which is or could ever be understood or cared for, all the while ostracizing those Hollow by forever dangling what they will never have or achieve in front of their dry eyes – taunting them with heartfelt love and appeasement in some farce we claim is an attempt at aid. We never wanted to help – just wanted to feel helpful.

All we ever did or ever do is only an attempt to make ourselves feel more abundantly – never to help those whose stand-alone dream is to cry in the midst of night simply to know that there remains within them some aspect, some modicum, of a dream of a life beyond the hollow variable. They were stripped of everything – now cold and calculating, appreciating empiricism over emotion, they isolate themselves into a world where interaction is an equation, love a product, and life a simple sentence written on lined paper. Praying to die and return as someone else, hoping to one day feel like they did before, becomes the single pervasive, encompassing thought echoing throughout their hollow soul.

And then it ends. Not the way we’d hope, not in the way we had wished they’d overcome, but they did and do overcome. Sitting alone in a house forced into being called a home, they look in the mirror to see another individual entirely. Their entire existence circumference by a unique phantom pain resulting from a person the no longer recognize as themself. The one solution, in order to undo the pain, remedy the misery – death. Scavenging together whatever pieces they can find to do the deed, the Afflicted become flooded with a sense of desire, a sense of passion derived from desperation. In this quest, no matter how long or brief, the Hollow feel once more. Escalating upward like a Mountain with no summit they press on until-

They felt. As the bullet left the gun, rope became taught, or pills took effect – they felt. The triumvirate of depression, joy, and regret surged within them for the briefest of moments where they realized they were about to die – not as hollow, but as someone who could feel. This “Hollow” variable, as it seems, is not the cause but rather the result and extended motivator toward feeling once more. Brought forth through a series of events unique to themselves, this person acquired the need to never feel. In a safety mechanism they had no choice in desiring, numbness took hold with the Hollow variable sprouting within, containing the promise of feeling without interacting – the one dream of the Afflicted. This variable enters the equation without asking, yet bears with it the nigh inevitable result of death – as to complete the process began when numbness emptied their soul.
 

a pebble

Strategos
Of What Pours from Reality

I have seen reality, pierced its center and watched its essence flow. Bursting forth from its side came a flood of pain, all in a specific amount, happiness, in such particular measure, perfection, in small portions, and evil, in grand allocation. Flowing over my mind, filling it with sorrow and desperation, joy and love, I found myself lost within myself, contemplating the components. Oddly, I considered, there was no beauty in the flood, no allure in the essence.

Pouring myself over the ideas, the novel thoughts which my mind had so recently come across, I forsook the vastness of such distinct concepts and theories for the search of just one: beauty. The entire being of reality, the entire knowledge of its specificities, paled in value as the realization came upon me that beauty was not present in reality. Beauty, despite all we wish it to be, was absent. Not innate to all things, or even one thing.

I waited for some epiphone, some revolution of the mind which may lead me to uncovering beauty under the shadow. However no matter how long I lied in wait, the hours I spent in search and wanting, beauty eluded me. If beauty is not present in reality, then how might I contemplate things and determine them as beautiful? How is it that I can look upon another and think her beautiful beyond measure and be breathless as I admire the reality before me? How can a concept not found in reality speak toward that which is in reality without breaking which is within realities realm?

My meditations and beliefs collided with each other, shattering one and strengthening the former. Beauty, against all odds, is not, nor has ever been, in reality nor will it ever be. It, rather, exists within my mind and my fellow thinker, yet each existence of beauty is distinct from mind to mind, a specific uniqueness to the individual. But it is certain that we all appreciate some things as beautiful, yes? And this is where true beauty introduces itself to us. Beauty, in its purest form, never limited itself to the individual, but existed on its own. It is only in our ability to interpret this abstract which we find cohesion and parallelism between each of our fellow human, the interpretation of the symphony created by the whole of reality. Beauty never came from reality because, as it seems, beauty was and is reality, with all things pouring forth from it.