I hated that part of the book- the one which made all too much sense before its time, while remaining difficult to understand, yet connected the dots perfectly where one would’ve preferred for them to have remained disconnected for just a little while longer. I somehow learnt to appreciate and hold onto a sense of oblivion until the point when it was completely necessary to let go of it. It made room for me to imagine all of the possibilities that were possible to imagine and fantasize about them as if they had already happened and I could live in a constant state of something closely resembling euphoria- the kind that chooses to remain oblivious to things that might alter said state from what it is to anything that it could be, but chooses not to be. It was the only thing that I could think of to be completely void of disappointment.
It seemed so easily read at first. Letters being sent back and forth, seeming to fly through out of space and be shaken around amongst the stars in order to land with such a graceful enchantment. It wasn’t long until the letters became a source of nourishment. Without them, the pages seemed dry. They were a necessity, no longer a want for words on paper. The words needed to be spilled out onto a page and, even more so, they needed to be read. This was the part which I loved. Nourishment. Oblivion. Dot. Dot. Dot. No lines.
Chapters adorned in decadence unravelled a swift romance between worlds and kingdoms and separated voyages, but a lack of depth in understanding remained and there was a certain beauty beneath the simplicity of it. It was an underlying forte of charm and genius that held each word at such a glow without allowing the reader to grasp it completely. But just as one discovers a space which creates a sense of comfort, the author must draw a line and send a meteorite straight for earth. Another line, stars shattering. Another one, the extinction of light altogether.
I finally knew what it meant for silence to be deafening and darkness binding. It is in that moment when the master of this art holds everything you’ve known before tightly in his grasp and holds you captive to the belief that it was your own sense of oblivion that got you tangled in that very web. He ties it up and writes two words in order to resolve the story as if it were only temporary in the first place. Either that, or he leaves without warning, leaving you in…darkness. Think of it as if you’re being presented with an ultimatum. Just as it begins, so it must end. An ending even more dramatic than the beginning, perhaps. That’s for the writer to decide.
I hated that part of the book. Where worlds would collide and stars would fall and letters would end without explanation and we would be left with our own oblivion and trickles of light and a hard, unsympathetic back cover, regardless of the magic which existed in between. It is almost the same as sending a letter and not knowing if it had arrived- the choice to remain uninformed of the answer to this matter leaves one in a space of ignorance which is almost satisfying because there is no want for anything beyond it, but this is a choice which only exists without lines. Letters almost always reach their destination. Maybe if I had connected the dots in the first place, I would’ve known that anything resembling something from another universe or tragic story book would end without a hero and that mine would be the last word.
Oblivion in terms of the stars is something of infinite wonder, but even wonder must exist within time, or without it completely, in order to be anything at all.
down this rabbit hole 