Prologue

Time…

…the ongoing passage of one event to another.

Space…

…the place where matter is placed.

Purpose…

…a soul placed inside of a body with the want or need for perfection.

Waste…

…a specific piece of matter that is unnecessary, unwanted, or has no purpose.

Stand…

…living up to a promise, truce, moral, or an oath.

Fall…

…weakening to the finest point and either never standing again or rising with more power.

Live…

…the ability to think and develop a personality within a body.

Die…

…the end of body and the inability to think; the passage from the body.

 

A spacious room.  Glass walls.  The sunset shining through.  Silhouettes…a table, two chairs, a tea set, a platter of various sweets, and most importantly two figures in the midst of a conversation.  One sips tea.  One speaks.

“Shadows can surround your soul, but humans always will walk toward the light.  If mortals are Shadows in themselves, then why do they depend on the light so much?” Clink.  The spout of a tea pot hits the edge of the tea cup and steam fills the surrounding air as tea fills the cup.  “For the simple reason of without the light, the darkness would prevail…” Plop.  Plop.  Two sugar cubes. “…but wait.  Without light, who’s to say there’s a such thing as darkness?” Clinkity, clinkity clink. A spoon stirs the hot tea and disintegrates the sugar. “So the conclusion I’ve come to: We get the perfection we all so desire.”

Sip, gulp.  The tea cup is left at half.  “But how can we desire if there is no such thing as?  For how can desire be there if there’s no such thing as repulse?  And satisfaction without need?  And happiness without apathy? And love without hatred?  Or even life without death?  Doesn’t that mean we’d basically not even exist?  For how can I be here if there’s not a ‘here’ to be in?” Crunch, munch, chew, gulp.  One less sweet on the platter.

                “Exactly.  It’s perfection.” Sip, gulp.  Near empty cup of tea. “The perfect we want would be personified into an endless nothing, and all it takes is a backwards big bang.”

                “No…that’s not perfection.”  Tink.  The tea cup is set on its saucer, but fingers still grasp the handle as if another drink is being debated.

                “It’s perfection to me.” Sip, gulp.  Empty tea cup. Tink.  The tea cup is set back on its saucer.

                “You say it as if perfection is an opinion.” Crunch, much, chew, gulp.  One more less sweet.

                “Well then, what is perfection to you?” Light chuckle.