Unraveling

Within the bright vacant room, the echoing of his footsteps were all the accompaniment the man desired as he approached the lonely table and chair. His steps were light and quick against the linoleum floor and brought a sense of comfort and solitude to the situation at hand. As he pulled the chair from under the table, he knew the unraveling had already begun. The chair creaked slightly under the burden of his weight, but he knew the weight would soon be lifted. On the table laid a single white sheet of paper. Next to the paper was a freshly sharpened pencil waiting to unveil his story. He eagerly picked up the pencil and began to write. As the light scratches on the parchment from his writing continued the man noticed the tip of his oxfords had begun to unravel. With panic and delight the man continued with his writing. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling that had once shone overwhelmingly bright had begun to dull a bit in their luminescence. Still the man continued to write.

As the graphite continued with its constant scratching on the paper, the unraveling unnoticed by the man had inched toward the cuff of his trousers. Without conscious of his dwindling timeline the man continued to write his story.  He could no longer make out the corners of the room as the lights continued to dim, and his pack in writing seemed to quicken. The unraveling had made its way to his knees, and still the man continued to write unphased by his altering silhouette in the chair.  

Three quarters of the page were now filled with his writings and the scratching against the parchment becoming more direct and frequent. His writings were filled with the heartache of lost love, great adventures that may have never left man’s own backyard as a child, and regrets that dimmed with time. Words of happiness filled his eyes with tears of joy while he bathed in the remnants of those moments. As these writings trickled off his pencil and onto the page his writing quickened and so did the unraveling.

His arrival to the room was now a foggy memory, and the four walls that once were easily seen from where he sat now loomed within the darkening shadows. His mind and efforts were focused on his writing as now the unraveling had just passed his navel. What had once seemed like an abundance of his silhouette was soon revealing its own limitations now. There was no way to go back so the man continued with his writing.

The man did not know how long he had until the unraveling would stop and his story would be complete. He guessed that no one really has that answer when they take their own seat and begin to write. In many cases most just continue to write to the end without hesitation while others make deliberate and calculated strokes as they write their own story. The man noticed that there was no undoing of his story, no way to correct his mistakes or change the direction that the story had come to.  The pencil, despite having a sharp point that never seemed to dull as he wrote,  did not have an eraser to correct any mistakes, regrets, or changes. These points must simply be brushed off and the writing must continue.

The unraveling itself does not cause pain and as one writes, and the action is all but noticeable. At times there are signs of faster unraveling than at other times, but there are tales in everyone’s writings where risks are taken to make the story more interesting to the audience. The understanding and purpose of the unraveling is not necessarily as important to the story as the plotline that is written, and most times the meaning is basically ignored all together. Everyone has a timeline that is unknown and vastly different from the next.

               Now solely focused on writing, tension soon began to grow from his hand. His brow frowned in concentration, and beads of perspiration could be seen in dimming light. His page was nearly full, but at times it felt so empty and meaningless. Frustration had come and gone like ocean waves, and at one low point the man almost crumbled up the paper to quit. These were the moments the unraveling quickened.

The unraveling seemed to be quickening and the man’s writing became panicked. As he continued to write the room became so dark that being able to decipher what had been written soon became impossible. The unraveling had now passed his shoulders and settled at the base of his chin. His writing slowed down and due to the darkness was almost unreadable, but he continued. His silhouette revealed just a face and a single hand holding the pencil.

Although there was not much left to unravel from the man his final words were what mattered most on the nearly full paper. His story was almost complete, but there was still more to write as there was still more to unravel. As the last inch was being filled with the man’s story the words were being written slowly and with great care. There was no more times for risks, mistakes, or excitement and the man had no interest in entertaining his audience any more. The unraveling was continuing, and his story would soon be complete.

               The room was almost pitch black and the memories within the story could not be seen or reflected upon, and the paper was nearly full. The memory of how he came to be in the room had been lost along with most of the details that he had displayed within his story. The unraveling had reached the tips of his grasp on the pencil just as he wrote, “The End.”  The pencil fell with an echoing silence to the paper as the last letter was written. Just as the man had begun his story alone, he then completed it alone.