This Man Beyond Impediments.

Everybody wanted a story that day.  Some revelatory tale that might simultaneously contextualise and enlighten.  It was a tough ask, and the author paused too long.
     "What should I say?  What can be said?  Is it fancy, or dim cowardice that stays my hand upon the keyboard?"
     A wiser voice replied, "You're such that the moment has no control.  Seize that opening, master the complexities of the silence, and give what you have without regret."
     So fleeting, all that doubt.  So inescapably trite amidst the inherent chaos of reckoning and reconsideration.  Heroism, redefined, became the convenient watchword of an emasculated policy of self-determined withdrawal, instead of blatant exterior expression.  He'd caved in, instead of reaching out, and that error became definitive...for only a moment.
     "I do have something to say," cried the author, "And it will be heard, in however scant a quadrant.  It is this..."
     Scribes, adept at analysing drafts, perused the script that the author submitted.  It was lengthy, at times incoherent, but it carried the weight of conviction, and one or two of them smiled at its parabolic inconsistences.
     "This man," noted Scribe Number 406, "Offers insight without parallel.  His account is detailed and flawless, but it is encumbered with an overriding sense of despair.  This, I fear, will not play well with the masses."
     Scribe Number 707 took a different view.
     "What I have read confirms my belief that the author understands destiny and happenstance.  His limitations are humanic, not detrimental to pure understanding."
     The author smiled, taking on board the received critiques, and worked upon his second draft without bitterness.  The forum was absurd, he decided, and subject to all the myriad contentions and obfuscations that editorial imperative determined.  Ultimately, there was no one to please but himself, but he was his own worst critic, so the draft existed in a virtual limbo for several days.  The judging panel, vast and eclectic, pondered upon his edits, passing casual judgement upon the merest typographical alteration that he made, until the time came for the author's final submission.
     "I hope you know what you're doing," said Althea10, catching the author during an unscheduled Hangout.  "I've read your edits, and they're terrifically bold."
     "It is what it is," replied the author.  "If the world needs to know something beyond this, then it knows where to reach me."
     "You need to consider the impediments," said Althea10.  "Truth has a way of getting distorted, reinterpreted, and finally diminished."
     The author punched up a smiley face on his keyboard.
     "Truth is absolute, Althea10.  It either cuts, or glances off.  But it is always remembered."
      The author, this man beyond impediments, posted his revised draft, and switched off every computer he owned.  It was done.  End of.  Whatever happened next was, he decided, down to fate.



For a more adept iteration of the author's message and intentions, e-mail him at tyger.doyle@gmail.com.