Chapter 0 - Prologue

Human lives are very strange indeed. When viewed through the lens of retrospection, they grasp us with a profound melancholy, or some immortal regret that never stops haunting us. The human life is an event filled with mistakes that one prays never to repeat, and successes that one will never be able to repeat, no matter how much prayer is offered. The human condition is indeed the greatest unsolved mystery, perhaps even greater than the most perplexing problems in science or theology. Everyone’s lives are so colourful - tainted with the red of passion and pain, the blue of melancholy and freedom, the yellow of joy and hope - but strangely the kaleidoscope of my existence is stained in a dull gray and white. My life lacks colour. I have everyday joys, and everyday delights. I have everyday losses and triumphs. Compared to the blossoms around me, I could only feel myself wilting in the season of fruition. This saddened me greatly when I first came upon this profoundly underwhelming discovery. To alleviate this and with hopes of fixing it, I started writing frivolous stories such as these. I showed the first poems and stories I wrote to my colleagues and friends. They all praised my work, and complimented me on my unoriginal style and uninspired narratives. Only one person was different. To preserve the sanctity of her true identity (indeed, for she would surely know that this is her upon reading this story), I shall only refer to her by the first letter of her surname. M said that my stories lacked originality. They felt too unreal, too detached from any real emotion. She said that they were devoid of soul, that they were devoid of any real purpose. They lacked a reason to exist.

What she had described were my pitiful attempts at creating what I thought to be works of art. They were reflections of my self. What she had most accurately described was my very existence as a human being. The works were based on my own life, on my own experiences, and on my own interpretations. Naturally, they were all shallow. But I want to make this work different. Typing as I am on this overly bright screen with a difficult interface, I still hope to infuse this piece of writing with some colour. I want it to have a real reason to exist. I want there to be a real reason for you to keep reading it. I want you to find some value in this effort. If even one of my readers thought that this work was of some value, then it means that I myself as an artist will have value. I cannot say the same about my existence as a human being. This is because this work is not based on my own life or my own experiences. It is based on M’s. M’s entire life was a symphony of colour. Everything about her seemed to exude what I lacked. I said just in the paragraph before that I was a kaleidoscope of gray and white. If that is the case, then perhaps now I shall try to become a telescope. I will become the device that you can use to observe the brilliance of the stars. Every day of her life shined like a star. Every month was a beautiful galaxy. Every year was an entire universe in itself. I will record as many of them as possible. I will create within these pages the observatory to contain the brilliance of her humanity.

M was a genius. It felt to me that she could understand everything she came across. Yet her own heart was a labyrinth to herself. Many tried to unravel her, but failed to. She was one mystery that no one could truly solve. She represented the entire mystery of human existence, perhaps. Yet, in my emptiness, I was unhindered in how deep I could traverse in that labyrinth. Many people have grand dreams, ambitions and visions of themselves. This can be who they are right now or what they think they are capable of. This sort of pride hinders them from truly understanding other human beings. Pride is like a blindfold. But in just this regard, I was different. Being that transparent being that I was, I was not only the epitome of mediocrity but it was the only peak I aspired to. I have no delusions of who I am. I have no unrealistic ambitions of what I can do. I am, and I always was perfectly content in my averageness. It was this that let me explore unhindered in the depths of M’s heart. Perhaps it was this strange abnormality about my acceptance of my normality that attracted M to me in the first place. Perhaps this was why M valued me so deeply. My reason for being so fascinated and fatally attracted to her as a person was simply her admiration of my mediocrity. This fact alone amazes me, even to this day. I understand M so well, and know so much about her that I feel like I was there watching her when she was born. No doubt, I will be there standing next to her on her deathbed. It is this absolute and complete grasp of M that allows me the confidence of writing this text. Painters try to capture the beauty of a fleeting scene forever in a small piece of a rectangular. Musicians capture the beauty of harmony in mere minutes. And I will capture the fleeting beauty of M’s life within the few thousand words nervously typed on this digital screen.