I have no story to tell. If I did have one, what difference would it make in the world, anyway? The way I see it, the world is the sum of its infinite parts - every single bit of matter, molecule, atom, reason, emotion, consciousness - all of them are as much part of the world as any group or combination formed from them. Individuals are, after all, at their most basic level, a collection of sub-microscopic inaminate objects (or perhaps they do move, maybe even of their own volition - science merely grasps at the surface of this field). In any case, we are a phenomenon; you could call us concepts.
But are we all the same, then? The answer has to be an emphatic no. By our very definition as encompassing combinations of lesser components it stands to reason that each of our respective occupied spaces in the universe are different in some way or other. This is no mere coincidence of description: it is fact, logic. Is your person of a millisecond ago exactly the same as the person you are now? I doubt it - the smallest alterations in physical attributes, even seemingly inconsequential fluctuations, prove that existence is linear in all dimensions: all shades of grey nevertheless still comprise black and white. Information is perpetually, incessantly, produced - and metadata ascribed unto anything of being in perpetuum.
Maybe, then, just maybe, an ostensibly insignificant part of this behemoth of a system can change the world. I suppose I shall write my story - make it.
— — —
He saw the sun tonight. Still not fully believing, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the brilliant glare and with the other, dug around in his pockets for his mobile phone. Finding both pockets empty, he panicked, then realized that it did not trouble him as much as he thought. He was in a different world now.
He had always needed a familiar environment to think, and so he walked toward the old playground from his childhood, which was, inexplicably, positioned a lane’s stroll away from his current position. He questioned his state of mind: why did he not more immediately marvel at the strangeness of such an occurrence? It was absurd.
Nevertheless in a few minutes he was pacing among the swings which had accumulated a thick layer of grey: pesky particles that when stirred caused him to erupt into frenzied fits of hacking cough. Deciding he should tread a little more gently among the fond memories that lay in peace with the dust bunnies, he thought. About the world, and how to get back there.
—
By the time the sun set, he had found a shady spot under an unfamiliar tree and was sitting down down cross-legged, not particularly ruminative any more. He enjoyed the light, playful evening breeze as it kissed him on the cheek, on the neck - a smothering of invisible love.
It was morning.
