Unfinished Story

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Every story remains unfinished. A blank canvas, waiting patiently for the next artist to come along. A typewriter sits collecting dust like a recluse. A chunk of marble not yet fully molded into the beautiful man it had been destined to become. A girl steps off the edge of a building and descends into the ocean of black static.

Every answer stems from a question, but not every question has an answer. You can answer why a flower blooms but you cannot answer why the universe exists.

This is the same as every chapter coming to a close, but you don't know what happens directly after that last word. You don't know the dialogue, the movements. You don't know what goes on inside the head of a musician once he finishes his piece.

We are not stories. We come to an end, a final scene. We are each of us an illustrious performance, and every play must come to an end. Either you go out with a bang or you meekly exit stage left.

But we-- as a single, sentient entity, the one person that each of us is-- are not the story. The universe is the story, and it is a beautiful novel, a continuous story that, one day, might end. But until then we are just the background characters.

We are the people who are casually walking down the street in an action movie as a car explodes of a building crumbles.

We are nobodies while, around us, the universe explodes and creates and destroys, supernovas and black holes and planets colliding in a story of action and death and romance and multiple layers of multiple lives overlapping.

We are pieces in a poem about villains and heroes and gods and demons and ghosts and memories.

Everything comes to an end, but the story of the universe is endless.

Is it a paradox, or is it a question that cannot be answered?

Why do we exist, in this story? Are we only static in the background, or is there some other meaning to me, and you, and everyone in between us?

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This was honestly just based off of me not being able to come up with a story to write.


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