The Question

A man losing his grip on reality seeks answers from his otherworldly king.

   How odd is it, unsettling even, to think that I have found pity in the eyes of my king? How am I worthy of his mercy? Am I of a unique importance uncommon among man, or am I simply to pitiful to end in such a horrible way as the rest of my kind? Has he saved me a spot among his cosmic court? And if so, how will my feeble mind comprehend such an unthinkable thing? Perhaps he has decided that I am his equal among men, that I am the only soul worthy of sitting by his side. Am I to become one such as he? A being that no man would ever dare to lay eyes upon? What is to become of me after the world burns like a kindle, and the universe becomes no more than his toy? I have questions too numerable to ask of him. But would he answer one? Could he find a way to explain the impossible to a man who hasn’t the ability to see that which he can see?

   

   My king is both omnipotent and omniscient. Surely he will be able to answer whatever questions I may have in a way that a man such as I can comprehend without succumbing to immeasurable mental strain; or even madness. I am getting ahead of myself. Before I can ask a question, I must think of one to ask. I dare not ask any more than one, for I fear that I may run the risk of losing his favor. My mind is too weak to take in too much at once, so I must also keep this question simple. Now, out of all of the unsolvable puzzles and paradoxes floating around within my mind, which one do I wish to be solved? Do I want to learn of what will become of me? Do I want to know what will happen to this universe? No, I have the perfect question. I do hope it is not too much to ask of him.

    

   Finally, the time has come to call upon my king. He already knows that I am waiting for him. He even knows the reason for which I do. He sees me standing on the shoreline, and I hear his mortal counterpart approaching through the stagnant air. He rows ever closer to the shore through the still water and the dense fog.I shall soon cease to write, for when I learn of what I seek to know there will be no coming back to the world of logic and reason. There will only be chaos and madness. He comes closer. I can hear his whispers; his silent yet deafening howls. I hear the beating of ten thousand drums and the melody of his black cello. But I will not be driven to madness, no, for I am under his protection. Now, I shall find out. How can I become a god such as you, my king?

Author's Note

If you have any ideas as to how I could branch off of this story to create a bigger picture, please include them in your review. I am new to writing, so I would also appreciate tips and advice. Thank you.