From my story book Paradox of fiction
My name is Moor. They’re repulsed by me, they fear me, they find me disgusting. And my whole life, they’ve been after me. Was I doing something wrong? All I ever did was try not to starve. I didn’t know how to do anything else. And they hated me for it. But I learned how to survive. To blend in. Sometimes I even laughed at it—how I could be invisible. They looked right at me but didn’t see me. If you figure that out, you survive. If not, you’re just another meal for the world. You have to be careful. Invisible. It’s a frontline war, really. Modern technology, chemical weapons, and in this jungle, animals too. Ruthless ones. The young are predators—give them an inch, and you’ll never get it back. It’s constant survival. But I’m tired of it. What was thrilling at first has become a routine. And routine is where mistakes happen.
The best thing would be to hide. Cover myself completely, sleep, and dream of a green meadow where no one cares about me. Just a meadow, all to myself.
Moor commanded respect. Over time, he learned that without it, the fights would never stop. Always someone, always something. A world built on pillars of war, fear, contempt, and indifference. The only beauty left was in dreams and thoughts. And the knowledge that nothing lasts forever. No one could endure this endlessly. He never found his purpose on Earth. The more he thought about it, the more pointless he felt. Extra. Because no one missed him. There was no home to return to, no one to tell about his day. No one to listen to theirs. No arguing, no laughter, no petty jokes like he’d so often observed, invisible in the shadows. He didn’t resemble anyone. Realizing that stung. It’s better to disappear. Hide away and sleep. Never wake up. He didn’t feel himself today. He covered himself up—completely, so he couldn’t see or be seen.
As he drifted off, he knew something was different. He couldn’t move. It felt like he was turning to stone. He tried to shift, but his legs wouldn’t obey. He couldn’t even turn his head. Awake but trapped. He felt himself leaving the world as he knew it. You just know. He didn’t want to go, but something was… different. And there was nothing he could do about it.
He remembered feeling nervous. And the city’s awful noise. Then everything went dark. Maybe it was night. As he fell asleep, he thought—no, he was certain—it was the end. Exhausted and resigned. He didn’t understand it, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
He dreamt of flying. You know that feeling? When all it takes is a breath, and you lift off? At first, cautiously, just a meter above the ground, but then you dare to go higher. Wow. The first landing—perfect. Like flying was the easiest thing in the world. Another breath… a few steps forward… and up again. Flying wherever you want.
He slept for a long time. When he woke up, he tried to move, but he couldn’t. He looked at his legs. Oh no. His vision wouldn’t focus. His legs looked awful. His whole body did.
I’ve turned to stone, he thought. Moor, you’re a rock. That’s what you look like. But no… I’m not. It’s like I’m inside a rock. He began to panic. Tried to breathe deeply, but the stone’s grip wouldn’t let him.
If I can’t take a bigger breath, I’ll suffocate, Moor thought. Something’s wrong.
Then a memory flashed.
Ah… just another dream—a chemical storm in his head. A nightmare. The same ugly, endless nightmare that had haunted him for weeks. It scared him and fascinated him at the same time.
Now I’m trapped in a stone statue. And the statue is too small. It’s crushing me. I hate it.
But this time, he couldn’t remember how the dream ended. With light? Yes. Light was the answer. He tried to summon as much light as he could, to end the nightmare. But it wouldn’t come. He couldn’t remember what light looked like. What color was it? White? Red? Black? Damn. He knew the names of colors but couldn’t match them to shades. Or did light have a shape? Will someone tell me?
He thrashed, twisted… losing his mind. Moor, you’re crazy. Crazy. Light. Darkness. Crazy. Stone. Light. Flying. Crazy…
With his last ounce of strength, he pushed against it. He took a breath. Deeper than the stone could bear. The sound of a whip cracking. A judge’s gavel. The grip loosened, just a bit. On his back now. Suddenly, he had enough strength to win the fight with the stone. He’d get out. He had to. Like being born. To be free.
The statue lay beside him now. A hollow shell.
He stretched his wings.
Wings? I have wings?
Am I still dreaming? Will this dream never end?
No. I’m awake. I actually have wings. Divine. I can really fly. He tried to remember if he’d always had wings. Before? What before? He couldn’t recall anything. But the place felt familiar. Friendly. Peaceful.
In that moment, Moor was the happiest night moth in the world. The happiest nightmare.
He took a breath, spread his wings, and flew for the first time.
While flying, he thought about where to go. Yes, I’ll go there… to that… The word came to him: tree. Okay… I’ll call it a tree. A giant oak by the road. Landing felt as soft as slipping into a pair of slippers. This dimension of existence felt perfect.
His day was a friendly darkness. Safe. But the night was a time for beasts. It held a bearable sun, one that called out with the voices of sirens.
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