The Epitome of Bygone Elegance
A Tribute to the Imagination
Once upon a time there lived a man. This man was not part of a fairytale, nor of some other story involving magical creatures or imaginary beings. This man lived on a planet, a real-life planet, with laws that governed its nature and everything surrounding it. This planet was his home, and every day he tried to understand it, and all the complicated structures that governed it and moved its foundations.
In his youth there was much that was unknown, rivers that appeared out of nowhere and could not be explained by the wisdom of a child. Cornfields were his battlefields, and trees arose from the ground and did not seem to have an ending. Every find, and every new thing he traded with neighbor friends or kids from school felt like a treasure, something to keep safe.
His lively imagery was realized by his innocence and his flexible mind, and because he had so little knowledge of outer space he was led to believe that this small plane of play was his only kingdom. He had all there was to want, and nothing could defeat his pride.
But at some point, for reasons he could not quite explain, he became conscious of his movement and was able to observe himself, while at the same time reflecting on his actions and deliberate decisions. Brewing on this new insight, he became eager to know more, and in time learned about the dynamics of human nature, psychology, and the morality placed upon creatures like himself.
There came “ah-ha” moments, satisfying revelations that revealed something deeper that had been hidden at first, and as the days went on he gained the insight to vary his time, to train the mind and become competent in skills that could accelerate his potential. He became knowledgeable in philosophy and in the idea of good and evil. He learned about the foundations of reality and even went further, realizing that nature is not only to be understood through hard science, but also through some form of abstract art that would sing to him and caress the soul and emotions, and not only the mere mind, touching places the intellect alone could not reach.
This led him to spirituality, poetry, and even forms of religion. And yet, satisfaction grew lesser by the day, for with each new eureka or intellectual progress he lost the things he once valued. The comedy and inspirational bliss of his youth flattened, and with the pursuit of the factual enterprise he forgot what it meant to be equal to others and to live by the spontaneous familiarity he once conveyed.
“Do I have to do it all over again,” he asked himself, poisoning his mind with faulty beliefs about reversed time or the wish to be young again. He made himself wary and jealous of others. He lost the art of the spoken word and began to weigh the value of every utterance. In time he forgot how to read the world, and every night he lay in bed, older than the day before, contemplating possible missteps or lost wisdoms, like a four-dimensional chess game, so layered and calculated.
As his body had learned to thrive on things new, his days were filled with habits he collected through the years, habits that told him, like others did, that these were good or valuable in and of themselves. He let his life be guided by the ethics of the wisest and the heroes of the past, and even let himself refrain from ego and be like a true altruist for his neighbors and those far away. Even as his quick mind and social interactions became more treacherous and uncertain, the animals continued to love him, and so did those who held him dear. But even knowing this, nothing seemed to uplift his ever dying spirit.
And then, by good fortune or some intervention of the gods, he found a story. A story of a man that lived on a planet. A story like that of his youth, and the many adventures, just like in his younger days. As he read, tears came, not from learning something new, but from recognition, as this story resembled his childhood. This was a story, a fictional story, a healing whisper for the mind’s eye.
By this good fortune he now could soothe what was wounded, dull himself against the constant pull of entropy, and for the first time could let his fantasy roar, let it fall and tumble, while coming across surprising twists and leaps of faith that challenged much of his rational believes. Fiction returned to him what analysis could not, and give him the freedom to create but also appease that what had been worn thin.
And so, from time to time, he let himself drift away into stories. Stories that sink deep, that briefly allow us to witness something that is greater than ourselves. For after the final bell has rung, when we lift our eyes to the sky and finally must go down the hall, we can still linger on that fading memory of our flourishing imagination, the epitome of bygone elegance.