In the beginning there was a boy.
He loved stories, and indulged a voracious appetite for books.
He was never a fast reader, but he learned to savour the nuances of each page.
The material feel of words – saturated, dense, layered; stark, isolated, provocative – where language becomes an insistent development in conjunction with the narrative plot.
The illustrations – sometimes beautiful in austerity, sometimes breathtaking in detail – evocative and inviting in unique ways.
But it is where the physical and abstract elements met, where the page-turn – a closure to antecedents and a precursor of the following – coincided with the imagination – the lingering afterimages borne of words and pictures, the anticipation of the next rushing ahead of the synapses – that truly caught his heart.
There, in that place between the lines, he read his own stories.
Hundreds of them.
No, thousands.
As the six honest serving men taught Kipling all he knew, so too did they serve the boy well.

It was little wonder that, as with many young boys, he grew to love the fantasies most – the fairy tales with their magic and familial endings; the fables with their lessons and talking creatures; myths which told of tales when the world was young; legends which romanticized the ideals and deeds of heroes.
In a world where the cold rationalities of a science-driven existence became ever more apparent, escape could be found in the worlds furthest removed from such rationalities.
The knight’s errand.
The hero’s quest.
The wretched boy who becomes a noble prince.
The fair princess who attains freedom.
True love conquers all.
These became realities in the fantasy world. A world of idyll and simplicity. A world of chivalry and honour. These ideals would be betrayed by the harsh world he inhabited - a world which could neither accept nor understand such ideals, like they could not understand him – thus he hid them in the shelter of his imagination.

In time, the boy learnt to appreciate the stories even more. He found stories in artwork; and, later on, music. Still, to speak of those would be a story for another time.
Graphic novels whetted his appetite for dramatic, visual interpretations, crucially retaining sufficient off-panel space to digest the stories. Animated feature films were amalgamations of all these elements he had come to enjoy, yet, they could not enchant the same way – there was scant space and time for the imagination to roam.

The holy grail took an innocuous form, the container surprised even him. It may have been a day of wind and rain, but the sun-drenched revelation took him a world – no, worlds – away.
The graphical adventure game.
Scorned and derided by parents – it was no wonder, he came to realize, because therein lay the same fantasy worlds which his own could not, would not accept – they beckoned and invited him into a captivating story-telling journey each time.
The stories were quests, rendered in colour, chronicled in animation, given emotion by music, brought to life by words. And the greatest pleasure, the boy found, was in being a part of the story. He did not write the story, but he could still shape it. He could direct the hero’s actions, explore new vistas with him, and meet unknown creatures together. In the lull between fruitless searches and failed plans, the boy would once again consult the six servant men. And in the periods where he left for the vagaries of his own colourless, static world, his mind would wander.
It was a dream. A paradise. How ironic, that it was the computer – technology borne from the highest order of rational minds – that proved the gateway to Avalon. It should have served as a foreshadow of cruel despair.

It was a dream. The stories… They always ended. All is but a distant Utopia. Was parting sweet sorrow? The climax of a story – the culmination of time and emotion invested – where one stands at the zenith and surveys the victorious conclusion ahead, is always tempered by a lingering certainty of finality – the hero’s purpose gone, the story’s justification finished.

So the boy decided, he would continue the dream.

I am the spine of my book.

God had granted him a gift, in accord with his interest and personality. A voice. A style of writing which expressed those ideals he had sheltered, the poetic sensibilities he had nurtured.

Knowledge is my body, imagination is my blood.

Perhaps nostalgia is a chain, like that which bound Prometheus to an immortal life of suffering, holding one to memories of stories eclipsed. But still, the boy pondered the enchantment of bedtime stories of days gone by.

I have created over a thousand dreams.

Sleep was the breath of Once upon a Times. Even as he grew aware of the pages turning in his own life’s chapters, he could not forget the magic of those stories. They were the hope that tomorrow may yet allow him to live out the best of yesterday, one more time.

Unaware of loss.

Words. What use were his dreams if they could not be crystallized in language? Time would pluck them loose, like the Artful Dodger, until his future was left with naught but the curse of nostalgia.

Nor aware of gain.

Words give form and structure to stories. They imbue them with emotion, impart kinetic energy to actions, leave invitations to memory.

Withstood pain to create stories, waiting for one’s arrival.

The boy projected his imaginations in words.

I have no regrets.

It did not matter, that no one else would ever read these stories. From the start, he had only ever written for his pleasure.

This is the only path.

No, perhaps they could not even be called stories. For they were always written without endings. The boy imagined many tales. He dreamt of epics. He wrote of adventures and quests, one after another. But he would never finish any. He honed his gift through labour and inspiration, but always the truth that he feared to bring closure to any of his stories cut as sharp as a blade. Still, he wrote, clinging on to the dream.

My whole life was “unlimited dream words”.

It was a dream. Whether the dream betrayed him, or whether he betrayed it, it was an unrealistic ideal. The boy grew disillusioned as the pages turned. Even as he received accolades for his writings, he knew these were never the things he wanted to write.
Conformity. That word scares him.
Eventually, the boy realized there was no place in this world for that dream. He would hide it, along with his stories, in his imagination, as he used to do. He continued to write as demanded by authority, and continued to receive praise. He disliked it. Yes…from the start, he had only ever wanted to write for his pleasure. Eventually, he stopped writing stories altogether.

The years would pass by swiftly, cold as a winter pole, but the days were long, hollow and dreary. The wheel is never in the present. It turns forwards and round again. Time leaves but a track behind. As the boy matured, he would turn the pages with joy and satisfaction, content with a life of redemption and salvation. He made peace with the world and its unavoidably logical, scientific ways. Yet, this world – one which forced out his ideals and silly dreams – still seemed void and empty.

A girl changed everything.

Symmetry is a concept entrenched as deeply in science as it is in art. Perhaps it should have been little surprise that he was harkened back to the feelings pouring forth that overcast morning when he booted up his first adventure game.

I am the spine of my book.

He did not write this story. No, only one Author could have. But the greatest pleasure, as it was then, is being part of the story. No, it is even better now, because the boy can speak to the Author. Where previously he strove to capture his dreams in words, he has now found freedom in simply living the dream.

The bread I have eaten, from the cup I have drunk.

Unhindered by his imperfect aesthetics. Unimpeded by his limited language. No human use of words could ever capture this grand adventure. But there is no need for such words. He can simply talk to the Author. Whereas in the past he let his imagination run in the inherent intermissions in stories, he now gains a better understanding of the story's direction during these idylls.

I have created over a thousand dreams.

A continuation of the dream. Yes, the boy, who was now a man, never had to hide those ideals. For he was never alone.

Redeemed from death.

He would serve his king.
Slay giants.
Grow to be a worthy prince.
Discover his princess.
Experience true love.

Redeemed for life.

His life is a story. The Author’s mark is on each page, yet no doubt he can still express his ideals. After all, it is a gift he had received many, many years ago – but now, he has someone to share the story with. Even in the poor chapters, the embarrassing dialogue, the failed quests, he dearly wishes for her to experience it with him.

Have withstood pain to create many stories.

A story that does not end. No, rather, the end is merely a beginning.

Yet, without You these hands will never hold anything.

A story that shall be rewritten – one where this world he inhabits is recreated, and will finally accept and understand him – by the Author, and the distant Utopia brought into reality – a dream revealed in the light of day – by His word.

So, as I pray -

And for the girl and him, the Author will wipe away all tears from their eyes, and give them peace and rest in eternal paradise.

“Unlimited dream words”.

talk.

silence from you is like the death of a tune

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