100

Welcome to the Agglomeration



So. Post No. 100. Few have speculated as to the nature of this slightly important post because frankly they've had better things to do. And even those who have devoted their brains to dwell over the matter for an inconsequential amount of time while they were waiting for the ice cream to melt over their pancakes for example, or while they were sitting on the toilet with nothing else to read, have quickly and perhaps rightly moved on to much more important things, like reading Digital Fortress. However, those who know me personally, or even those who have half paid attention to the occurences of this blog will not be surprised to know that I will be publishing something that I have creatively worked on, something that I have invested time and effort into, in the hope that someone will find it inspirational, thought-provokingly interesting or at least entertaining.


So with Arensky's Trio in D Minor playing the background, I present to you Part 12 of the Transcriber. This will either mark the end of my creative pursuits on this blog, or symbolise a new beginning. I say that only because I hear false dichotomies increase the chance of reader interest by 3%.


The Transcriber Part 12

Josef Karringer was sure time slowed in the black room. He had only fallen asleep three times in that room but already it seemed although that was longer than his entire existence in the previous rooms. He attributed this to the fact that he no longer had any purpose in those walls. There wasn’t a book for him to write from, nothing to copy. Everything that had formed the essence of his life just wasn’t there anymore. It lacked purpose. He was angry at how naive he was, thinking that he would have his freedom once he had completed the book for them. How stupid he was. Completing the book for them? For who? Who were they? Who was watching? Why was he here? For all he knew, there was nothing out there for him. Existence was this, these series of rooms, it meant nothing, everything amounted to nothing, it was inconsequential, all of it. Random motion, life just an accident, something that would dissipate, never to exist again, just another accident in a long series of accidents that he had never known or never would know. Where was the meaning? How could he make his life mean something, and if it couldn’t be done, why was there an innate desire for that to be so? Who was he?

A knock at the door rescued him from being enslaved in a vicious circle of unanswerable questions. It was something new, an entirely original experience. All the time he had spent in the room, those who had entered had always done so in his sleep, and as a result, Josef was primarily unaware of the occurrences although he had gradually begun to harbour suspicions that people might’ve been entering his room once the gifts arrived. He didn’t believe they came from nowhere. But there was nothing he could do to prove, and furthermore it was of no consequence of him who or what came into his room because it affected nothing, it changed nothing. This alone was enough to fill Josef with a tingling sense of anticipation and desire for discovery as he opened the door. Standing there was something that he had never seen before in his life. But somehow, he felt like he knew the man.

The man said nothing, grabbing Josef by the arm and dragging him out of his room. And then he stopped, as if he had remembered something. The man entered Josef’s room and took all the pieces of paper that Josef had been writing on himself, without any visual material to aid the transcription process. Josef wondered why his meaningless doodles were of any importance to this man. But he didn’t care. He was getting out of the black room. That was all that mattered. Who cared where this road would lead him, if it meant not a day longer spent in that cell, in that torturous prison where there was no meaning. Granted, Josef could not be sure there was meaning anywhere. But at least now he would be able to find out for himself. So Josef found himself trusting this man immediately, both on account of the immediate sense of inexplicable familiarity as well as the opportunity the man symbolised for him to discover himself.

He began to walk after the man, who had gestured for him to follow. Together they escaped the facility and went into hiding from the people who had held them prisoner for most of their lives. With inside help, Syro Ganderton and Josef Karringer went dark, and a week after their escape, the operation to locate and recapture them was abandoned. For all intents and purposes they were gone, and the operation would have to continue without them.

And so it did. For four whole years. Then Syro and Josef resurfaced.

To be continued...

Till next time, may you agglomerate all your unpremeditated contemplations.