THE CONTRARY MAN

I have tirelessly trained and run in the most competitive of races with the greatest of athletes and, on the cusp of victory, I have slowed my pace to ensure I finish last. I have prepared the sweetest tasting meals in all of culinary history and put them straight in the bin. I composed the most stirring musical composition that ever would've been heard had I not performed it on only one occasion, in a remote and unpopulated vicinity, with my ears plugged so even I would not hear it. Every single time someone wins a lottery and does not claim the winnings, it is me. I painted the greatest painting ever painted and then I painted over it. I wrote the greatest work of literature anyone would've ever read had I not rewritten it so that every word was 'shiteballs'. I then retitled the piece 'Shiteballs'. I have invented things that would have changed humanity's course for the better had I not placed them in a locked safe and hurled that safe into the core of a nuclear reactor. I have also learned the ultimate truth and when people ask me to share it with them I tell them a lie.

I have done all these things because I am The Contrary Man. I have devoted my life to mastering the art of living and then denied myself and the rest of you the fruits of my talents and knowledge. This is my ultimate revenge on the existence that has been foisted upon me and upon us all. An existence that, for many, consists largely of suffering without explanation. This compulsory existence is the ultimate injustice and my greatest achievement is to deny the challenges set before us by learning to overcome them and then not overcoming them. I have even discovered the secret of immortality only to cremate it and when I breathe my last I want to go to the afterlife and I want God to look at me and I want God to ask me 'why?' and I want to relish the look of incomprehension on God's face.

This will be my victory but the effort has not been an easy one. In the struggle there is a small amount of satisfaction. I have learned to love the meaninglessness of it all and I have learned that the most tragic failure, when executed correctly, is the greatest triumph. I have come to understand that the only finishing line that matters is death and even that doesn't matter very much in the dribbling staccato overwhelming context of this, ...whatever this is.

A BOX OF TRUTH

When he was just a small child, his father showed him the tiny box. He was sat by the fire, drying after a swim in the lake, when his father produced it. The box was shaped like a coffin. His father told him that there was a piece of paper in the box and written on that piece of paper was the truest thing that a man had ever written and that a man could ever read. The man said to the boy, 'my father's father gave it to my father and my father gave it to me and now I am giving it to you. You can open it and read it any time you want. Today, tomorrow, years from now or not all. It is not an easy thing to know the truth but it is something you may someday need.'

The boy did not open the box that day or the next day or for weeks, months and years. As the boy grew to a man, he would just look at the box on the mantel. He felt a strange fear of it. Once, when he was drunk, he almost opened the box. But he didn't. He almost opened the box again on the day of his father's death. But he didn't. And he almost opened the box again when he returned from the war. But he didn't. And he almost opened it a fourth time when he became a father himself. But he didn't. Then, when his son had reached the age he was when his father presented the box to him he almost opened the box again, to read what was in it before bestowing it upon his son. But he didn't. And his son didn't either. And it sat there, a frightening thing, upon the mantel.

Finally the day came when he did open the box. It was the day his own son died. 'What could be worse than this?' he wondered and then he realised that he felt no fear of the box. The truth held nothing over him now but for the promise of some consolation. After all, his father had told him that despite not being an easy thing to know, the truth is something you may someday need. He never needed anything more than he needed something this day so he opened the box. He saw a slip of paper in the box and he took it out. He read what was written on the slip of paper. There were four words written on the paper. The first word was 'all'. The second word was 'men'. The third word was 'are' and the final word was 'liars'. He read those four words over and over and over again and then he placed the slip of paper back inside the coffin shaped box and closed it. Then he recalled how, just hours earlier, his son had mustered the courage to open the box and read what was in it before him. And he recalled how his son went out from the house and walked straight into the lake.

(Inspired by Louis MacNeice's The Truisms)

INVISIBLE LIBRARY

Imagine there is only one library in the whole wide world and in that library is every book in existence. Now imagine that this library is invisible to the human eye. The library is completely invisible to humans with the exception of one book. A solitary book can be seen standing on the unseeable shelves. Now imagine that you are in the invisible library and you see the book. You pick it up and start reading. You think it’s a great book and even start making notes in the margin. Meanwhile, the rest of the library is watching you. It knows that its shelves are full of books. Better books than the one you are reading. In fact, it knows that the book you’re reading is amongst the worst on its shelves. It’s a chick lit thing by some floozy that presents afternoon television but you think it’s great because you know no better and have nothing to compare it to. This tragedy is not your fault. You did not choose the book deliberately. It was the only one you could see because the rest of the library resides in a realm beyond human sensory perception. You can’t help it that you can only see one book and you can’t help it if that book is rubbish. That is worthy of pity. That is forgivable. What is unforgivable though is that in this one book that you can see and read, in this one book that you think is the only book in existence, there is a bibliography. It’s at the back. You never thought to look and that is unforgivable because if you did you would at least realise that there must other books in existence. It’s written there, in your book. But you don’t think to look because you are so absorbed in the crappy narrative that makes up the rest of the pages. You don’t think to look because you want to get to the end of your shitty book and discover what it all meant. But when you get to the end of the book you realise that it has no meaning and you close the book and then you drop dead and turn to dust and so does the book and the rest of the library has long stopped caring and doesn’t even notice.

And so it seems that the meaning of life is that life has no meaning and the human race is alone in the Universe because the human race is reading the wrong book. I should know reader, because I’ve just snorted three bottles of Tipp-Ex thinner. Tipp-Ex thinner is the true route the wisdom. That’s why they banned it. They don’t want you seeing the library. They don’t want you reading the invisible books.