Chapter Two

I am one-hundred and eleven less than perfection. This means I no longer exist and am without any second chances at a new beginning. I deceived myself and, in turn, am deceived by the inevitable nature of things. I have no morality. My soul was taken from me. All I am left with is my smitten stream of conscience and memory that compose what I am made of. That is the distinction between ghost and spirit. I am a ghost.

            There is no single God, but everything which burdens a body harbors a spirit as well; and that, I've come to realize, is where our faith lies. I was a soul that had been damaged, revived, and then shattered: many times before and again. But if we go back in time it was more than a round surface, a cycle per se. That cycle was the air I breathed, the water I drank, and the blood that coursed through my poisoned veins. The cycle is me. And it is you. It is everything that is born and everything that goes in the ground whence it came. It is every story that is told. It is everything that blows in the wind. It is the wind. And I was a rabbit. And I had a foot, but I certainly wasn't lucky. However, that is another story that wouldn't make for very good table conversation. Alas, I have eaten my last supper. Had I not, I would cease to be here.

             I have lost my purpose. Or moreover, I suppose my purpose was to tell how it came to be. But first, I must state that nothing is and nothing will be. Everything is gilded and has a flip-side. Luck, for instance, is far from fair game. Chance is synonymous with luck, but one does not call oneself "chancy" because chance implies both the "good" and "bad" side of things, which is the coin in it's entirety,  whilst when one is "lucky" it means they have good fortune: merely by the outcome of chance. I am "chancy".

             There is no place, there is only space. There is no other side, but only an in-between. Everywhere is nowhere, and nowhere is the universe. It is simply impossible for a human to grasp due to his or her fist-sized mind. No one can imagine beyond the universe if they tried without scratching their head.  This is because it doesn't exist. But a human-animal would like to believe there is something "out there', they would say. I am putting my foot down now: the only "out there" is here. When one passes, it is not "where they pass", but "when they pass".

            Every story begins with "once upon a time". Where one travels when they pass is not a place but a time where nothing happens. This being the case, there is no feasible time but only the repetitiveness of occurrences that give us the illusion of time. When we remember past events they appear all too dream-like, save for the very moment we live in. Then it's gone and followed by a "replacement moment" that, to a conscience, imprints the illusion of reality. To break it down: our memory is a slave of time. One's life is that but a dream, a series of occurrences that never really happened but only seem to exist because of the consequence. That is where I lie. And my memory serves me well.

            I have been "here" many "times" before, as will anyone else. Only now I stay here for good, deprived of second chances and a fork for my meal. All of life is laced by a long, thin string. How we view our past lives, in the end, is the aftermath of how we lived our lives accordingly. There is no higher justice and there is no cleansing of bad actions. It is safe to say that we are a slave to ourselves. The only enlightenment we will ever receive in our final destination is the knowledge that we had lived our lives accordingly; for ourselves, granted we do not to intrude on any other one's ability to do the same.  The journey is the ultimate purpose, not where we will end up. A rabbit never has a second chance, and that is why I am here. Sat down and left with no other option I am bound eternally to watch my many lives unravel on the screen bit by bit, each viewing another piece of the puzzle, sin by sin.

            The more humanity has advanced, the more ridiculous their theories of the afterlife conveyed. There are no devils, and angels are a pipe-dream. There are only us. When we turn to their more primitive species, they seemed to have a more intimare understanding of the way things are. However, "intimate" is as far as anyone will achieve on the subject. Life will never understand itself. Only that which steps outside and observes will find answers. Life is grey, whilst that which comes before is white and after black.

            I am able to tell my tale due to the transcendence of my existence. I am between and through you; not on the other side as aforementioned. And I possess a conscience and a memory that never fail me, also previously stated. One who has served their very last term in life has a memory that stays with them forever.

            The Eskimos have thirty-two ways of saying the many gradations of any type of love. The English language is less equipped, only using one. My story is a romance, and in it are different levels of love: the love of oneself, the love of a material possession, the love of friendship, and the sensuality of loving and being loved in return by a kin soul. I am finally able to share my history with you, dear reader. Many metaphors abound. Metaphors tell the truth through lies.

            On the not-so-off-track, the number seven-hundred and seven in many civilizations depict enlightenment, or perfection....