The Great Vomiting

Siddhartha much? Perhaps I have been reading too much lit. Well, reading too much at least.

Over the hols I have discovered of all things, an slew of online story sites. Some good, some bad, some that just turned my brain to sludge. But in all that crap something stood out - a strange sort of mismashed impression, that these were all story sites, all on the internet, and all (sadly?) probably written by teenagers between the age of 13-19.

But all together, they became a voice. A small voice amongst the tide of the internet, with its great waves crashing all over the place, facts and wikipedia overloading our minds with every hyperlink. But a voice nonetheless.

They spoke of all things, change. They spoke of futures, of possibilities. Of what could have been, has been and will be soon. This is the age, THE age, where all the knowledge of a million people, their thoughts, their feelings - their sorrows, joys and regets, their successes and failures, their hopes and dreams - all of this, each a drink of innumerable flavors, float around the internet; a sight akin to seeing a slew of wine bottles floating through the gutter. Thing is, you never know which one might be the cheap alcohol, and which the 1787 Chateau d'Yquem.

In an age where all of this is available, what happens? Where we can look and see, from the comfort of our doorstep, the multitude of links and chains that web the world together? We see the patterns, I see the patterns, and they are ever-shifting, ever changing, a product and cause of the past, the present and the future.

We act on the present based on our past, and hence affect the future. That's the common line of thought. But then there is looking to the future to affect the present - this is called foresight. And then there's looking at how the past affects the future as well - this is called history. So what is there to say that the future did not affect the past? Somewhere, in the ancient times of the Egyptians, a king saw the future and made monuments to outlast the grinding hands of time.

And all these voices, they too speak of when has been. I read them and look at life, look at people and the world around, and I see patterns, connections - strange rifts and waves. Life has a rhythm, a flow to it. A song, but more than just music. A story, but more than mere words. A play, but across an infinite stage, with an unlimited cast. And in the heart of this, in the soul and centre, lie the voices of each generation, in black and white type across the screen.

A teacher told me at the start of the year, that the gift of the writer, the power they hold, is the ability to turn life into words, such that when a reader sees them, reads the scenario presented as in drawn into, he or she can say, "It resonates with me. It reminds me so much of my life". Except that its not only one life. Its an ocean, a million, billion droplets connected together in a massive body of water, flowing, churning, sparkling in the flame of life.

And so I drink from this ocean, with shaking hands and thirsty lips, until I can drink no more, am filled to the brim. Until these ideas, swimming and clashing in my brain like stars, burst out of my lips and hands and onto the page. To join the rest of the streams, flowing towards the sea.

I met my friends today, and was reminded of the endless potential displayed in upstart new heroes, eager to take on the world. I saw my EE Mentor, and felt the doom and fear of a minion before his absolute master, Demon of the Abyss. I cheered my sister's wonderful results, saw her tired smile, and heard the cheers of fellow family and friends cheering their champion's return. In life I see stories, and in stories I see life. And God is the Author, playwright and poet, of the greatest play of all.

Someday, I hope to write.

There is but a single line's difference, between a word and the world.