Read Between The Lines

As a slim foretelling of light peered over the horizon, and as the grooves of the earth became visible for the first time, Truth came to be.

Truth, the first of the storytellers, cast a long shadow; her only companion in the quiet existence where no language had yet formed. When there were no known words to speak her name, there was Truth.

Awareness and fear swelled regarding those grooves in the earth, as the complex root of humanity grew without decorum. As is the nature of Truth, whatever came from beneath her, or surrounded her, so too, she would become it.

As Truth gained knowledge, her strength increased.

Every manner of expression belonged to her, until, among the murmurings of mankind, a series of words developed into the creation of a new entity. Fiction, who was a master of stories, was much like her, or perhaps, not at all.

Fiction loomed taller than she ever could in her time since the first light, and while he spoke in fantastic falsities that could never have come from her, Truth grew indignant.

Fiction puzzled her. The power Fiction held over language and the variety of ways it could be bent was an ability which caused him to grow arrogant and boastful. The people that he catered to coveted his intriguing stories among all others.

Truth was rigid in the way she expressed herself, though, Fiction combined what wasn’t, or never could be, and made everything possible.

Fiction disguised himself as Truth, though his deceptions were clear. As much as Fiction bragged of the endless variety and potential he possessed, he so admired Truth and the impact she had on those who heard her words. She was so beautiful in her simplicity and completion that Fiction longed to be with her.

Later, mankind divided in their beliefs regarding the lies of Fiction, while they grew resentful of the strict nature of Truth. The people also questioned each other, unsure of those, who like Fiction, might deceive them. Soon, an uprising within the men and women of the earth ran deeper than the roots that bore them.

At the outskirts of their city dwellings, the people gathered in waves of destruction, seeking the end of the spoken word.

At the moment where the crowd forced these two opposing voices to gather at their feet, Truth discovered within herself a fondness for Fiction. While Truth was once alone as the first of any kind, now, in the dimming evening light where her shadow faded, she felt unexpected comfort in the reassuring words of Fiction. As mankind’s violent blows against them intensified, her faith in herself shook, though rather than trust in what she knew to be, it was an endearing belief in Fiction that kept her voice from waver.

Truth was reduced to her knees. While she always knew of pain, as all that could ever be, lived within her, a new comprehension formed in the darkness. If everything that was, or would come to pass, so too would she become, then all that Fiction was, she had always been.

The two most significant storytellers were struck down by weapons wielded by man and forged from the earth.

Truth realized that although man relied on weapons, as Fiction depended on words, she did not, nor had she ever. Before the earth filled with shadows cast of ill intent, and before there were words to speak her name, there was Truth. In the silent, empty void, before any human seed took root, there was Truth.

Weakness grew within Fiction. His voice tapered away as his soul grew dim. Resting as a crumpled frame, with his life spilling into the ground, his stories, once revered, could not be found. Made of lies, the ink that thickened like tar from his veins caused a growing fear of the power leaving him. His stories no longer held form as they leaked out and gathered into the grooves in the earth, spreading and creating patterns unknown to man.

Fiction sunk into the ground in the making of his grave, though in doing so, he buried Truth.

After rising from where the soil had toppled over her, there was enough clarity beneath the surface to make out the length of Fiction’s form.

Fiction had ink, but no strength. Truth had strength, but nothing left to say.

Together though, they could accomplish what Fiction could not on his own. Truth carried Fiction forward. With her strength and his meaning, they left behind a short message in distinct inscriptions of ink. Truth, needing no language, silently fit herself between the words of Fiction and became the unfinished gaps. Where Fiction became the words, there was Truth in the spaces. In so doing, a complete sentence formed.

Though the phrase came from Fiction, the voice of Truth, seen only between the lines, spoke loudest of all.

In Fiction’s grave, dug with lies, Truth died with him. She lay herself down at his side where the end of their story was the beginning of that of another. In the legacy that followed was the eternal, complete space at the end of their last breaths that neither could have completed on their own. From this expression of love, Metaphor was born.

 

By: Melissa C. Water

All rights reserved

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