act thirteen: 'til the bitter end
"If I keep writing any more, dear, I'll be writing about my memories of writing this memoir... it's time to face facts, I... I think it's time to put this story of mine to rest."
For ninety-three years, the old man had lived. Ninety-three years of living makes for a long, long tale... and the old man's story began sometime in his childhood, with a group of old friends who would all become integral parts of his life from those years forward. A young first love, taken from him in his later teen years. An eventual true love, who would stay by his side in the most difficult of times, who would act as his angel in the pit of hell itself...
For the first third of his life, the man had made an amazing story out for himself, one he would write about and speak of constantly to his children, to his grandchildren, and even to his great grandchildren in time. For all the years he'd lived, he was always telling stories, always building characters, always creating new and exciting worlds... and for once, he was finally starting to find the well running dry.
He lifted his eyes again to the young woman, to his beloved daughter of fifty-nine years. Suddenly, the woman... she wasn't so young anymore. Indeed, the years had been kind to her, and even in her own old age she had proven her grace... yet to that old man, she was still his daughter, she was still his little girl. The elderly woman stood before him all the same as she had fourty-nine years ago as a little girl, listening to his stories and admiring her father with great respect and admiration.
Time... time has a funny way of slipping through the fingers of man, of slowing to a crawl within the moment, but proving its stealth and speed over the course of a lifetime. To the old man, it felt like only moments prior that his daughter was the little girl he remembered, as if time itself had all passed within the span of their conversation. Was this what a story's true ending felt like? It all felt so surreal, as if... as if there was something there for him to bring him peace, something to tell him that his writing, though he did love it so, would finally be brought to an end to rest his weary hands.
Stories... memoirs... no matter what, the written word has, throughout time, been the primary means for man to put his story into the minds of other men. Written word has forever been a means of immortality, something to ensure some record of a life be kept to withstand the limits of time, and of the human lifespan. Ninety-three years of living, of writing and dreaming and telling stories... ninety-three years of living would be hundreds more of sustained life through story. Ninety-three years of living would be generations of family brought into the world, to set out in their own stories, to follow their own paths and find their own answers in life, just as the old man had before them.
"Dad? Dad... hey, what are you..."
When one's story truly comes to an end... when there's no words left to write, no characters left to build, no scenes left to set... when it's all said and done? The writer simply fades to time, his work left for memories, for honor and for respect. What the old man didn't understand for so long as a young man was that when the chapter of a man's story seemingly comes to an end, and when there seems to be no more chapters left to tell...
... sometimes, the epilogue can turn into a story of its own.
Inevitably, the story of a man doesn't end until he does. Chapters come and go, characters build and fade, scenes change on a constant basis... but the hero always remains to tell the remainder of the story. The hero is always around to see to it that the story meets its end in time, and time... time passes as it always has, an inevitable structure that the hero cannot overcome.
Within days, the old man passes away. The family mourns, as young and old gather together to remember the story-teller for who he was, and for what he did, and for all the lives he touched along the way. Indeed, he had done all he could not only for himself, but for his loved ones, and for those who watched on from afar. Always the entertainer, be it in person or in written word... the old man always gave it all he could for those who would watch or read on.
The old man wished to be selfless but self-caring, giving to those around him but resourceful for himself when times called for him to be. He had struggled, and he had toiled, and he had worked all his young life... but he loved every moment, and all his planning was for the better. Even when that planning changed, he had found new answers and new paths he'd never seen coming. Just as he had done to his own characters, life had taken his paths and expanded their bounds... and he had found new ways to move within them.
An epilogue had turned to a new chapter in his story, and end had turned to a new beginning. What once was a plan for a future of peace had evolved into something so much greater, and his hopes for a company that had brought him so far were reestablished, all thanks to the chance given to him because of all his efforts made.
The story continued as it always had. It continued because, despite the old man's naive beliefs as a young man, an epilogue didn't truly signal an end at all. No, instead... it just signalled for even more things to come. At that time, he'd already established a forward path.... he'd already known exactly where he'd been headed, and in the end, he was exactly right.
And in the end, how couldn't he be right? After-all... all that had stood in the path to stop the grand storyteller's future was a roaring lion. And in the face of the raging storm that was that old man's young spirit, the lion's roar had been all but smothered by the whipping winds, by the cacophony of thunder and the blinding flashes of lightning in the torn sky above.
Still, to its credit... the lion stood its ground before the storm.
Yet it failed to do much of anything at all when the storm did arrive, choosing only to roar in anger as that lion's very ground was torn out from under its feet.
Inevitably, it had never stood a chance at all.