I wandered the earth for many days, my mind and heart burdened by the echoes of a thousand worlds. I clung to no faith; I cherished no god, waiting, and yet for what?
In the sky, I saw a beautiful white buddha, spinning in circles with joyous abandon on his tranquil throne. I had heard word that Buddha was the first one to reach enlightenment. I knew that in many aspects he was divine, but I found myself wishing for something simpler. I wanted a story to tell.
I stared in wonder and fear as the buddha flew in a circle faster and faster, until he became a blur. The blur became a glowing light, which illuminated the entire sky. The light was brilliant and soothing; and, as if upon a signal, the entire world grew silent.
"I, too, want to tell a story."
I said this, the softest whisper ever heard, and my voice seemed to ripple outward, echoing through every inch of space and time, and yet I was silent.
In that moment, I could feel the stars shift as they descended into their perfect homes. I could feel the earth rotating and all beings upon it spinning to a perfect stop. It seemed that even the ripples passing through the oceans stopped as I spoke.
After all, I wanted to tell a story.
Ages passed and yet I spoke not a single word. I had no story to tell. Instead, I wanted many, untold stories to tell. I longed to be a singer of songs, a writer of poetry; a traveler of cities, a woman on the edge of war; and a friend of the elderly. I wanted too much to tell one story, and so I did nothing.
Years flashed by, and I grew bored. I needed to find a story. My search for a story brought me to an enormous star, traveling at the speed of five thousand light-years a day. I could see that it was afraid and alone. His name was Sol, and upon his face, a great, lumbering storm.
Sol shouted with a voice of thunder, "Why do you hurt me?"
"I do not hurt you, Sol. It is only that I want to tell a story."
"The stories you will tell will kill me!" Sol laid his head down in the dust and cried.
"What kind of story could kill you?" I asked.
"My story will never be published or read. No one will ever know anything about me. No one will send me letters, or look at my picture, or pay me tribute in any fashion. They will only talk about me as if I were nothing. They will tell my story to their children and their children's children, sitting in corners, and it will move them, but it will never be with my approval. They will talk and reflect with the name of Sol behind them, and nobody will ever call me by my real name, and they will forget everything to do with me and, one day, even I will be forgotten."
As I cried with him, I shook my head and whispered, "I do not want this life."
After I left Sol, I continued to travel through space and time, seeking a story. Soon afterward, I saw the shadow of a man, reflected off of an old brass lamp. As he passed through the lamp, his shadow became caught, and hung there, staring at me. His name was Kepler, and he was a wanderer.
Kepler's shadow whispered ruefully, "I should have stayed home with my family. I should have written the Bible. I should have done better. Anything but this."
"Why are you traveling this way, Kepler?" I asked.
"I am alone and misunderstood," he said.
"No," I said. "That is not true."
"Yes. It is. It is true. I will be alone forever."
Placing my hands on his shadow, I said, "It is never truly true. You, Kepler, are more than you think."
When he turned the next corner, his shadow still seemed to smile, even in its despair.
I spent another day at Kepler's side, chanting the name of him, until he finally caught my attention. We talked some more; and then, I left to find another story to tell.
I knew then that I would never find one.
This story was written by Ramohan Muthukrishna, a 20-year-old fiction writer, who lives in India.