Here is a man.
He is drenched in rags.
The rags cling loosely to his form like the skin on his emaciated frame.
His face is fuzzy; constantly shifting around but never quite taking a legible form.
Nevertheless, you feel as though he is smiling.
I AM GLAD TO SEE YOU.
Even his voice sounds tattered and rusted.
The grit in his throat almost makes the man sound as though he is suffocating.
I AM NOT WHO YOU ARE LOOKING FOR.
BUT BE NOT AFRAID.
I WILL SEE TO IT THAT OUR COALESCENCE ISN'T FOR NOT.
He extends a skeletal hand, cold to the touch, but pulsing as if alive.
Spiderwebbing cracks dance across the macabre surface.
The man offers you an apple.
It is red and gleaming in spite of the overwhelming darkness around.
You see your own face shone back in its skin, every detail of your visage perfectly captured save for your color, which appears to have faded.
IS IT NOT TO YOUR TASTE?
His voice spills over with worry like a stab wound.
Your hands are now occupied by the apple, which gives its thanks to you in ways impossible to articulate.
A voice, perhaps your own, or of your loved ones, or of the man before you, breaths down your neck.
WILL YOU TAKE A BITE?
IT WILL SHARE WITH YOU WHAT IS IMPORTANT.
You hesitate, but bring the fruit to your lips.
It quivers in anticipation---or perhaps your hands are nervously shaking.
Whatever the cause of it, your grief and fear melts away as your teeth sink into the apple's soft skin.
It's sweet.
It's bitter.
You feel an intense motivation; a desire to create, to tear the brains from your skull and squeeze the contents onto paper.
Then it stings.
Your tongue burns red hot, and the passion is replaced by confusion and doubt.
Fear massages your tense shoulders, and the hellish heat turns to unbearable cold.
You take another bite, the wound in the apple's flesh seeps crimson, dribbling to the floor.
Where it falls, grass and flowers emerge.
It hurts.
BREATHE.
THERE IS NO RUSH.
EXCEPT, OF COURSE, THAT OF WHICH LIVES IN YOUR MIND.
You try to breathe in, but choke.
You feel as though you are drowning.
A metallic flavor replaces the juice coating your tongue.
Nevertheless, you push through.
The closer you get to the core, the more your stomach flutters in spite of the pain.
Your joints ache, your head is searing misery so white-hot it clouds your vision, but the underlying desire to proceed shoulders the burdens.
Finally, your teeth cleave through the apple core, and everything stops.
IT IS TIME.
You hesitate as the man reaches out his hand again.
Words creep up your throat like bile, and you hurl them visciously.
They form harsh syllables, and inquiry in control of all feelings.
You ask the man what happens if you didn't do good enough.
YOU MOST CERTAINLY HAVEN'T.
THAT IS THE INTENDED RESULT.
WE ARE THE SUM OF OUR PARTS; THE JOURNEY'S DESTINATION.
AND WITHOUT THE EFFORT, THE PAIN AND THE PLEASURE, THERE CANNOT TRULY BE GOOD ENOUGH.
EVERY BITE WAS PROGRESS, EVERY APPLE CORE IS RIFE WITH SEEDS.
He takes the dessicated fruit and pulls the seeds from the exposed innards.
They glow, as if under a darklight, and the cracks in the man's bony hand seem to fill in with a golden lacre.
You ask what he is doing.
The man's face finally stops swirling, the amorphous surface breaks and gives way to something you've never seen before.
White pinpricks rest within deep, sunken eye sockets.
His gaunt features have a haze to them, intensifying closer to gashes in his skull that expose pulsating brain matter.
IT IS NOT TIME YET FOR YOU TO SEE.
BUT THAT IS OKAY.
YOUR EFFORTS ARE ALREADY PAYING OFF.
WHEN THE TIME COMES, AND THE TREE GROWS, YOUR MIND SHALL NOURISH ITS ROOTS.
YOUR THOUGHTS FERTILIZE THE REALM BETWEEN IS AND WILL, IT FREES THOSE WHO ARE NOT BLESSED WITH THEIR OWN THOUGHTS.
NOW, IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO LEAVE.
THE SAPLING WILL TEND TO ITSELF, FOR MY DEPARTURE SHALL COINCIDE WITH YOURS.
WHEN YOU ARRIVED HERE, YOUR EYES ATTEMPTED TO RATIONALIZE OBJECTS WHERE NONE RESIDED.
YOUR MIND FILLED IN THE GAPS BETWEEN BEAUTIFUL BURSTS OF SYNAPTIC COLORS.
THEY APPLIED THE CONCEPT OF A MAN TO THE VOID.
PERHAPS A CONGREGATION WITH THE VERY REAL ESSENCE OF THE OTHERS WHO MEDDLE IN FIRMAMENT SAW TO MY BIRTH.
WHATEVER THE CASE, WHEN YOU STOP PERCEIVING ME, I WILL CEASE TO EXIST.
WHEN YOU RETURN, AND FIND THIS SEED HAS GROWN INTO A TREE, I WILL NOT BE THERE.
THESE PRECISE CIRCUMSTANCES, OUR RELATIVE POSITIONS IN EXISTENCE, THE WAYS IN WHICH YOU COAX CONCIOUSNESS INTO YOUR SMALL, IMPERMANENT FORM.
THEY WILL NEVER AGAIN ALIGN.
SOMEONE ELSE WILL MEET YOU HERE.
PERHAPS WE WILL BE SIMILAR.
I HAVE NOT HAD LONG ENOUGH TO FEAR NOT BEING.
SO DO NOT GIVE ME THAT.
TURN, WALK, RETURN TO YOUR LIFE, AND WAIT FOR YOUR JOURNEY TO BEGIN.
You oblige, turning and walking away.
You walk, and walk, and walk.
Then you run.
You run and run and run until your lungs burn.
You run until you're no longer lost in the dark.
You run until I am dead.