The Prototype: The Message (very rough draft)

It looks like an ocean, no, an infinite slab of glass. Yes, the smoothest obsidian glass, with little holes where the ocean of pure light that lay behind is able to escape through. The pressure behind is building. Now, all we see is the droplets. Soon, I feel, we will see the ocean. The obsidian gate, no, curtain will disintegrate. The purest ocean of light will stretch forever and ever. That is what it looks like. Hope. That is what it feels like.
Those were just a few of the thoughts going through Pathos’ exceptional mind. He sat there on that hill alone, always alone. His only companions were the sea of tall grass brushing and blowing against him and the clear night sky above him. Nature had always been Pathos’ favorite companion. It was usually his only companion. It was not that Pathos did not want anyone’s company. He just wanted to be in the company of those that understood him, those that cared for him despite his eccentricities. Nature understood. Nature cared. Nature brought with it a sense of peace.
A soft breeze flowed through the air around Pathos. It caused the tall grass to dance and his chestnut hair to skip. It whistled in his ears a tune of utter serenity but also one of dark mysteries. The kind of mysteries that make you wary and exhilarated at the same time. The kind that makes you want to jump to your feet and dance, shout a restless chorus from your mouth, and run, run in any direction with no intent to cease. Pathos would have done just that had he not been captivated with the stillness of the moment. Those were the moments he treasured. Those were the only times he felt at least a little bit of release from the bitterness of life. Pathos was one truly weary of the world. He was a diamond in the rough and was constantly battered and bruised by the harsh environment. He was a sixteen-year-old prodigy in a population of barbarians. In a time when people, in their near-sightedness, refrain from looking and judging beyond the surface, Pathos longed for his heart to be heard.
Pathos dropped his head to his knees, which he held against his chest. Why must I be this way? Why must I be so different? What caused me to be like this? A single, heavy tear rolled silently down his cheek. It was like the warming touch of a good friend when they wrap their arm around you. It brings a subtle, unquestioning comfort, but also proves that something must be wrong. It brings out the pain and dulls it at the same time. One tear is never enough to really comfort, but one tear is enough to cause one to accept that the pain is real. Pathos’ pain was real.
Writing and literature had always been Pathos’ true love. It was that love that, at age five, caused him to choose that name for himself. It seemed fitting to him. It was true, at least to himself. The story of his life had always carried with it a deep pathos, and if anyone cared to read it, they would not be able to help but feel a strong sense of compassion and sorrow. Actually, most people’s stories carried with it the same sort of pathos, but the world tends not to read one’s story. The world tends to focus on only their own story, and sometimes they even feel that their’s is the only story. One of the extraordinary things about Pathos was that he did not dwell on his own story. He knew that there were so many other stories out there to be read. He could look into someone’s eyes and read their story. He could see them and know them at the same time. That was one of the reasons he spent so little time around people. He found that when he was around other people often, he became much more depressed. By reading so many stories and feeling so much emotion for those whom the stories belonged to, he wanted very much to do something for them. The fact that people were so closed to outside help stopped Pathos from being able to do anything for them. This was what caused his depression.
That night, Pathos sat there on the grassy hill underneath the star-filled night sky in contemplation. Something had happened earlier that day that caused him to sit in wonder. It was surprising that a mind so extraordinary as Pathos’ could ever be caused to wonder by anything, but this flummoxed even his mind.
Where did that voice come from? It can’t have been actually born in my own mind. Why would I send a message like that to my own mind? I do not even quite know what the voice in my mind spoke of. “At the point where nothing meets nothing, there you will find something. Come, come to me. I hold a perspective that you have not. Two halves shall become one soul.” That was what the voice spoke to me. If I was not the one sending the message, than why was the voice in my mind my own voice? It sounded just like something I am thinking now, but that thought was out of the blue and in the second person. My mind will not rest until I have discovered the answer to this message. From inquisition through toil does illumination birth.
Pathos slowly arose from his spot on the rolling hill. He savored the beauty of movement. Pathos ran, not hurriedly, but quick and gracefully. He was not rushing. No, Pathos never rushed. He knew too much about life and beauty to ever rush. As he ran over and past the flowing hills that seemed to wave to him as he passed, he thought. Pathos spent every waking moment thinking, contemplating many things of a vast variety. He had come to many conclusions in his young lifetime, but he had come to many more questions than conclusions. He thought a lot about that strange feeling he sometimes had. Every now and then, a feeling would come over him that made him question himself and wonder if there was something more. He wondered if there was something about the universe that was more immaterial than the wind but more powerful than the tempest. More fearsome than fear itself but more beautiful than the purest essence of life. More lovely than love. The more he thought about it, the more he longed for it; the more he longed for it, the hollower he felt. Pathos very much wanted to have faith. He was tired of relying so much on intelligence, but he was given so much intelligence that it hindered his path to faith.
As Pathos ran through a forest of strong oak trees, he decided he would practice having faith. He decided he should start out small and work his way up. Pathos made a firm commitment in his mind and will and heart that he would have faith that he would find the answers to this strange message he received. He would never stop until he found the messenger and the meaning of the message. He would go where nothing meets nothing and find something. That was the essence of faith, wasn’t it? To go where there is nothing and find something? To believe there is something there? Pathos believed.
He kept running and running and running. Pathos was a good runner. He ran often and for very long distances. He had decided quite a while back that he had legs for a reason, and he would use them to their extent. Pathos had never ever ridden in a car or a train or a boat or a plane or any vehicle. He had never had need to travel very long distances. Wherever he truly needed to go, he could get to by natural means.
After Pathos cleared the forest and crested a rather tall hill, he looked out and saw small houses with lights in there windows in the horizon. Before the houses were fields with crops growing and a country lane dividing the fields in half. He went through the options in his mind and decided that the best one would be to travel to the nearest farm house and offer to work the fields the next day in exchange for a meal and a bed to sleep that night. Pathos could easily steal some food without getting caught, but the thought never crossed his mind. Strangely, wrong thoughts never really did cross his mind. Pathos never actually thought, said, or did anything wrong. The option to do wrong never entered his thoughts. Since he never thought wrongly, he never became prideful of his morality. He was never self-righteous, but always righteous. He was quite an exceptional young man.
Pathos did exactly what he planned to do. He jogged down the other side of the hill and down the country path until he reached the first farmhouse. He knocked on the door, and an elderly, jovial man answered. He introduced himself as Hank Wilkinson and gratefully accepted Pathos’ proposition. As Hank led Pathos inside the small cottage, he explained that his wife Molly had just made up a nice big pot of baked beans. They also had an open bedroom since their son Jacob had moved out to search for success in New York. With a smile missing a couple teeth, Hank said to Pathos, “All the success I need is right here, in muh nice, peaceful farm. Nuthin’ but the soft earth, the flyin’, twitterin’ birds, and muh lovely wife. Mmhmm, nah them’s success.”
Pathos ate his fill and lay down on the comfortable mattress in the spare bedroom. As he was contemplating his next move towards the answer to the strange message, a thought popped into his mind.
Hmm, I wonder. Could it be possible? Would he hold the answers? He did make me the way I am, after all. He raised me until I was five, albeit I was in permanent sub-conscious. I suppose I have no other ideas at the moment. Yes, that is what I will do.
Pathos decided he would pay a visit to Dr. Erwin Gallagher.