She knew what it was, a thing in her life that did not make sense. Whoever was writing her absolute horrific nightmare of an existence, had forgotten the first rule of reality: it needed to make sense, it needed to have an establishment of rules that were meant to be followed and changed in only extraordinary circumstances, and logic and emotion needed to be always be at the exact same longitude. That is, she could never too emotional or too logical, and all of that would have propelled her to eventually develop a bending of her strained back towards a climax, that was both satisfying and splendorous, and denouement that would give her the closure she needed, whether it was bad, good, or neutral.
But she met it and then…
“What do you mean, it does not make sense?” the writer, the creator, the god, the archangel of the universe itself, asked me when I complained about the latest reviews, from me, to it.
“At some point in my life, something that doesn’t add up. It creates a lot of questions, things that had not been established before, in my life. A person who I’ve never met before, a rule of physics that seemingly vanished, and an answer to a question I couldn’t have possibly known,” she said, her eyes filling with tears of rage and guilt. But the creator simply shrugged and did not pay it any mind, for he was about to die in a torrent of glory and wondrous imagination, for he had others things to create that were not in any way related to real life.
“Do you understand how frustrating it is? To exist with such limited amount of enjoyment and have to throw it all the window for one simple mistake? Your mistake!” she said, hoping to make him come to his sense, but he dissolved, like vanishing sand into nothingness, and she was left alone, screaming down her own throat at the futility of life, having been exposed as defective, a fraud with legs.
She moved far and wide and high and across away trying to get to the end of her life, the life that mattered, the one that made a good story, without thinking about that little thing in her life that made no sense. But she couldn’t stop obsessing about it. She had let it dominate her little, miniscule mind and it ruined every single interaction she had because it just wouldn’t stop rotting her away.
“It does not make sense, and if something doesn’t make sense, it cannot be enjoyed,” she said to herself, as a mantra, so that she would go to sleep with happy, conflicting thoughts of senseless tragedies becoming laughable, easy to understand mistakes with easy explanations. She explored her body to make it happy but even in the midst of her pleasurable centers, she could not find anything worthwhile in her life to reminisce about because she was so focused, so singularly interested in the one event that had changed the course of her history, she didn’t know how to feel or when or what.
“I have succumbed to my biggest flaw, the search of imperfection. I should have been perfect, my story should have been perfect,” she whispered to herself, hoping that her god would come and embrace her with a prayer, and say nice things in her ear, and bludgeon her to death mercifully so that she could turn around, a fiction of malfeasance into an genuine understanding of the dangers of starting without a plan.
But she didn’t die like that and her story ended when she least expected it, with her miserable, with the little hole in her brain leaking all of her thoughts.