Lit eZine Vol 10 | p-19 | FICTION | Winston~ The Quest of Questions

PHILOSOPHICAL FICTION

WINSTON~THE QUEST OF QUESTIONS
by Leya Hunter

Winston began his long journey into the centre of town. These long train rides always fascinated him; it was something about the changing landscape that sparked intrigue into the deepest recesses of his psyche. He began jotting down his morning thoughts in real time, capturing the moments as they arose in his mind and manifested out through his fingertips into fine black ink.

“The mountain appears different at every angle, which one could I assume is the correct one? If any at all, or perhaps all of them are. If the latter is the case, then can this also apply to the mental construction of multiple and opposing theories? The angles must be important for the measurement; every angle has an opposite end, whether in mathematics or mentally. If I cannot understand the angle’s opposite, then I cannot know it in its entirety, and if I cannot know it in its entirety, then how can I devote myself to its chains of truth? So, the mountain remains, but my understanding of it differs in proportion to the changing view of the mountain. This distance is proving to be a problem for the accuracy of any one answer, perhaps because the distance between opposing angles is so great, we tend to perpetuate our assumptions directly into validity. Especially seeing as we rarely understand the angle’s opposite in its entirety. Even though things can be fixed within themselves, they are surrounded by a type of fluidity. Does it have to be either or? These complexities always shine into the simplicities…where to begin and where to end, where do the point and the pointless begin? I suppose things need a reference in which to reference themselves. I don’t know things in fine detail, but I know the perimeter in which they exist, the outside lining, the borders, the expansion, the deflation and contraction within it, even though I think I understand, I am still heavily swayed by my own humanity, the mechanical tinkers inside the monotonous and mundanity… this wonder gets me high… but my humanity keeps me grounded… this mountain has sparked many thoughts… oh the joys of thinking…”.

Winston glanced out of the frosty window, pushing his little black notebook to one side, near his heavily caffeinated Styrofoam cup, his long skinny legs slumped sideways underneath the stowaway table. He caught a glimpse of his reflection as the frost ran down the window edges, his blue eyes piercing back with a look of deep solitude, which was well suited to his pondering nature. He looked closer at his own characteristics and wondered if other people saw him the same way. His exaggerated, perfectly straight nose, although large, was nicely in proportion to his elongated face, his face not perfect by any means, but handsome in its unique sense. His smile was wide and bright, but a rarity for his introverted personality. He looked beyond himself and out into the void of the grey misty London skyline, and just as he was about to reach for his pen, the train’s computerised voice pierced through the speaker system, “Next… stop… London”. He quickly put his notebook into the inside pocket of his emerald green velvet jacket and swung his brown satchel diagonally across his torso and over his shoulder.

As Winston walked on the narrow London pavement amongst the herds of people, he became even more entrenched in his own voice. He quickly reached for his notebook, which was the size of his large palm, and started to write his spontaneous thoughts; in fact, he barely knew how to write any other way. He looked up every few seconds so as not to bump into anyone, which was virtually impossible at the best of times in London Square. He was pushed and shoved several times in the crowd, but he was so encapsulated in his own thoughts that he acted as if it were totally unbeknownst to him. He swiftly started writing his thoughts and pushed his satchel to his side once more after it had been knocked several times to his front.

“As the crowd makes my body feel small, it enlarges my mind until I forget my body even exists. Here I walk along the curb, the path made of old-world pavers, they are rugged and dull, the depths of dullness furnished with different colour markings which are becoming living stains upon which my mind imagines. The perfectly architected cathedrals oozing beauty through the leadlight stained glass, the old shop fronts depicting scenes from a medieval society, an era in which merchants bartered their bread and hand-sewn clothing in exchange for precious metals. I’m noticing the finest details in the arched doorways, the curvature, the embellished patterns, the raw, imperfect beauty. I see the changing of light creating different angles of the same thing, I am sifting through mountains of distractions trying to get to the core of any one thought, but my senses are too wide open, perhaps my streams of thoughts don’t allow for it, or perhaps the beauty of possibilities and expansion lives inside the unknowable and uncertainty of it all, or perhaps the unknowable is likened to a holographic image, the closer we think we get the further the thing becomes. I do wonder if others think in similar terms, or if others are intrigued by questions as much as I. Perhaps I just have a rusted cog in the wheels of modern society. I feel this, as when presenting such thoughts to people, the wheels sure don’t spin freely unhindered. Dare I add that perhaps one day our minds will experience a freedom like no other, which brings me to another thought, do we truly want to be free, and if so, then it must be noted that we have to understand and experience, or at least truly understand its opposite, to fully grasp and appreciate it, as sad as that is to say.”

Winston stopped still in the middle of the crowd and took a deep breath, flicking his pen around his fingers he began to notice that most of the faces surrounding him were dull, they looked sombre and lifeless, they all shared the same face, a face that had an urgency to be somewhere, a face marked with a distaste for life itself, a face that had lost touch with the soul that existed behind its very eyes. He found the closest park bench and started writing again.

“As I bask in the light of the cold London sun, I open my notebook and continue reading myself in between the lines of sentences, opening inscriptions of dual possibilities, moulding the differences into open-ended interpretations of thought. The faces that surround me are bleak, but there surely must be a whole world inside them dying to breathe. What kind of world do they foster? What have they endured? What are their hopes and dreams? My quest for questions is becoming limitless, but the outcome always remains unsolidified. The thirst of unknowing draws out an unquenchable curiosity. I hold contradictions as if they were a prerequisite to being human. It seems like a true condition of the nature within, it all starts and ends in questions, and it is a cycle of continual becoming and unbecoming.”