To Want The Impossible

They wanted something possible and it was something he wanted too. So, he obliged. He took on the task with great pride and he created.

They wanted something possible and it wasn’t quite what he wanted. But he felt it was still a good idea. He took on the task, wanting to please them, and still wanting to create. And so he did.

They wanted something possible and he disliked the idea. An argument broke out. He wanted to create something different. One of his ideas. They didn’t want that. They wanted their idea to be created. They didn’t care how much he hated it, they told him to create it. There was never an agreement that he would just create whatever they wanted, but they acted as if this was the agreement. As if someone tore bark off a tree, put ink to a quill, and etched those very words on the soft side of the bark. As if it was then signed by him in a hurry. As if this all happened ages ago, before paper and pens, something that existed forever.

They repeated that they wanted this thing.

They repeated that he needed to create this thing.

They wanted something possible and he disliked the idea. But he worked on the task. He created it.

They wanted something impossible. And he had no opinion on it. It didn’t matter. It was impossible. He told them this and they screamed in his face, demanding the impossible.

He laid out the foolishness of their plan. For him to be in three places at once. How could he be working on one portion of the task here while simultaneously working on another portion there while somehow also in a third location hammering away at other details?

They scoffed at his reasoning. They insisted the impossible be done. They even said the word impossible. They didn’t even hear themselves. Ears plugged up with greed and pride. Sitting on their high throne, wanting the gold surrounding them to be multiplied. Wanting luscious soups to be hand fed to them. All by his hand. All while he simultaneously worked on the impossible task.

He pushed back.

They pushed back.

Do the impossible.

And so he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

But he didn’t even try.

They told him to go back to doing the possible. He did nothing. He stopped speaking. He stood still and stared deep into their eyes.

They told him to go back to doing the possible… the possible that he wanted to do. To create what he loved. He didn’t. He didn’t do anything. He stood in their room of gold and he leered at them. His very presence brought beads of sweat to their sticky skin. They grew uncomfortable. As did the room. As did the gold. It all began to melt away, as if sweating along with them.

Until the room was broken. The ceiling hung and the walls teetered, and everything was dull brown and harsh gray. The gold melted into the very ground beneath them and vanished into the dirt. The worms could have it now. The worms would appreciate it.

And he didn’t move.

And they didn’t stop sweating.

They got up, so out of character, and began their attempts at fixing the walls. But with no skills to fix walls. They pushed portions of wall back up, hoping to reconstruct the whole room with pathetic attempts. The walls stayed in a state of flux, never fully coming down, but very clearly never going to be stood back up. These walls had come down for good.

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