In another world, quite like this one, there exists another me. It would be a shame really, if there wasn't. Being one of a kind means the world needs more of you, not less.
Thus, this other, dashing version of myself, if he is as bright as I think myself to be, should arrive at the very same conclusion.
The average folk of either world cannot understand men like me, not even because we are unique. We are misunderstood simply, because of our boundless imagination.
Imagination, my friends, is the unseen colour that painted the universe as we know it.
To assume it simply, burst into existence is a lack of imagination on their part.
To look for the answers in what is seen sometimes blinds us to the reality of what isn't. Why is what we see more real than what we don't? Reality could very well be a dual experience of what is seen, and what isn't.
The mere fact that we try to understand the world around us points out, that there is meaning in it. Meaning in us.
I'm not attempting to dissuade those who may disagree, in fact, I welcome contention.
It is from these very questions we discover ourselves, well, at least those of us that truly wish to.
This other world, this other me, would be faced with a question. A question we so often leave blank for society to fill in what's missing. The question of identity.
And no doubt, those belonging to his world, much like mine, would have no trouble leaving it up to their fellows. Their systems, their circumstances, their ideologies and so on.
'Who am I?' He would ask. And throughout his whole life, the things that he did, the people around him, the thoughts and feelings he had accumulated by experience would define his present self.
He would deny it. He would deny it as I have. He would deny it because he would feel something missing. Some vague feeling that made him feel incomplete.
Purpose burdened him so. He wouldn't be able to come to terms with only what he saw. There had to be more. As he interacted with the humans, he would discern their complexity and thereby deny the finite curtain blocking the light from beyond the seen realm.
'Their souls cannot be finite,' he thought. They're made of thicker stuff. My soul cannot be finite. My soul cannot be.
Affirmative, he got all that pride from me.
And as he wrestled with these questions, like I did, he would search for the answers wherever he could find them. He would prove many things attempting to do so.
He would then stumble, on a mystery that would by many be dubbed a foolish notion, me.
He would stumble on my fragrance, scattered throughout his entire world and he would follow these breadcrumbs to a mountain.
At the foot of this mountain, he would find many curious travellers, all in search of the answer to the missing pieces inside of them.
With joy, they would all begin to climb, and as they did, it became apparent that some were not as committed to the journey as they were in the beginning.
Settling for less they returned to the foot of the mountain but he, and a few travellers like himself, would persist.
Along the way, diverse hardships would cull more members of this group until there were only three of them left.
He and this resilient duo would finally arrive at the mountain's summit having given up more than they came to find.
There was no answer. There was no release. There was simply the echo of nothing in the wind. Purpose had eluded them once more.
After a few hours, the two people he was with decided to descend and possibly dissuade those that they found on the way.
It seemed all but a fruitless endeavour. He, however, much like me, waited.
He would not return to the foot of the mountain as finite as he came.
He did not know what he hoped to find but he was sure it was still there; so he waited.
The winds blew and the cold gripped his soul but he waited. Death inched closer, but he waited.
After five gruelling days, sheets of paper were blown to his direction. It was weird as you might imagine, but he tried to catch as many as he could.
Having gathered them all, he read, 'From Me,' as the title at the head of every page.
The rest of it was blank. As he stared at blank page after page, a small object flying through the air hit him on the head.
It was a pen. My pen. He, was to write his own story.
As the author of this other me, I couldn't be prouder. I would want him to be him, just as much as I am me.
The journey did not define him, it simply tested him into who he really was.