Empty Pages
an excerpt

Humiliating though it may be to see just how far my writing skills have degenerated...

Prologue: The Book of Countless Sorrows

It is said that God began the creation of the universe with a blackened void filled with waters. And so it is in this same place that consciousness begins. The first awareness is the endless abyss of blackness. But there are two blacknesses, only barely distinguishable from one another. The one above is still, silent, and almost solid in its appearance. The one below is ceaseless in its slowly rolling waves of water. Slowly, silently, the waves roll on and on as far back into the eternity of a black horizon where the blackness of the sky meets the invisible line of blackness that is the watery horizon.
Slowly the consciousness that perceives these two begins to take a vague form in this simple act of perception. Pulling gradually within itself, the drifting consciousness begins to perceive the light that is the sands upon which the waves crash and fade. It realizes that this is night, which is why there is so much darkness. It knows that day will inevitably follow to banish the darkness. Day is brought by the fiery wonder that is the sun, a star. Though it is somewhere else for now, there are a countless multitude of others that pierce the darkness above that is the night sky. Ancient, powerful, and awesome in their beauty, they watch as this consciousness grows ever-more by this simple recognition.
Pulling yet further into itself, the consciousness becomes aware of still more. It sees. All these things it knows because it can see. Now it is aware of itself. Compelled to explore further, it pulls further into itself, aware that it exists. The eyes that perceive this watery nightscape then become aware that it is somewhere. The scene it has watched is beyond a clear barrier. It knows this is a window, and therefore it is inside something. It is a building, a shelter of a sort.
But wait; there is something else that catches the attention of the consciousness. Upon the pane of glass that is the window of this building it can see something more than just the darkness beyond. It is the reflection of the body of a consciousness. With the eyes of one who has never seen before, it takes into itself the image of this being.
All that can be seen is a face. Framed entirely in the blackness of the view beyond the window is a thin visage of creamy white, pale skin. A fine, high-set cheekbone defines the roundness where the eye begins. Staring back is a dark blue orb that seems as endless in depth as the watery deep beyond the window. A fine, gently shaped nose curves downward drawing the eye to the thinly curving lips of a rosy pink hue. Unmoving in mute silence, the jaw that would draw those lips apart sweeps gently backward in a perfect curve.
But this face is incomplete. Beyond these few definable features, there is only the blackness of the void beyond the window. Pulling back within itself a little more, the consciousness realizes that this is because there is only blackness to be reflected. Hair as black as the night sky beyond the window has fallen half over the face covering one eye. It falls in gentle, perfect curls downward along the body that holds this face. Where pale skin would be is instead an equally black void showing only the nightscape. The body is clothed in the blackness of clothing that leaves only the face and hands exposed. Uniformed, endless blackness that now shows only the void beyond the window.
Slowly the consciousness realizes that this reflected vision is its own body. And with this realization is lost the wonder of these visions. The consciousness knows she is a person. Though it is late into the night, she is sitting in a cafe on the beach. She has been here for several hours drinking coffee and thinking. This is not the first time she has been here. Many times has she come here over a period of years. She has within her twenty-three years of memories. And she has a name.
Kalika, they once called her. Not her real name, but still a name.
Sighing heavily, she banishes the void from her mind and returns fully to herself and her surroundings. She is in a booth in the farthest corner of the restaurant, now facing the beach. Reaching out, she takes a cigarette out of her pack and lights it. Expelling the blue grey smoke she reaches with her other hand to pick up the swiftly cooling cup of coffee. The bittersweet flavor slides smoothly down her throat as she gulps down the last swallows of the lukewarm fluid. Almost before she has finished, a tired, young waitress swiftly refills the cup.
It is late, Kalika thinks as she absently adds cream and sugar to her coffee. She knows it is time she quit for the night and began her drive home. But this night is different. Unlike the hundreds of nights she has spent in this place in the past, she knows that this will be her last. Ten years she has been coming to this place, but never before had it entered her mind that it was the end of those visits. This time, though, she knows she will never sit here again.
Her eyes fall to the stack of papers on the table beside her. A stack she has been working on tirelessly for some time. Now it is finished. The story has been written; the words committed to paper and visible to all. She has completed the task she set out. And now her mind has conceived of its title.
"The Book of Countless Sorrows," Kalika whispers almost inaudibly to herself.
A lifetime of work now completed. It is the stories of lives passed away and tales forgotten. It is the ultimate achievement for her, and her greatest sorrow. The story began so long ago it seemed a lifetime away. Young, though she is, she has lived a great many lifetimes herself.
And here it ends, she thinks, not unhappily.
A moment later she smiles quietly to herself as her sensitive ears catch the sound of the music playing from the speakers overhead. It has been a long time since she heard that particular song. It is one she is very familiar with. The smile is for the irony of the timing involved in its sudden and unexpected appearance once more. But without a doubt, it is all too fitting in this moment.
"These, my old haunts, I will soon leave forever," she speaks softly to herself. And there are none left who even care. This last she thinks with no hint of sorrow; just a sense of finality and completion.
As if having read her thoughts, the music began a new song no less ironic in its timing than the previous. All thought of leaving banished from her mind, Kalika instead settles herself more comfortably to ponder her thoughts. From the speakers above, the beautifully sung lyrics drifted to her ears.
I will remember you.
Will you remember me?
Don’t let your life pass you by,
Weep not for the memories.
No. No tears from me. Too many memories, too much has passed for there to be any tears left, she thinks feeling suddenly old and worn. This is where it ends. But where did it truly begin? she wonders momentarily.
Glancing to the hundreds of pages stacked beside her, she wonders more about that last question. For many years now she had thought it began with this book. It began with the first person, the first story, in The Book of Countless Sorrows.
But is that really true? Could it really have begun only a few, long years ago? she asked herself.
"No," she softly answered aloud.
If it began only so recently, then none of the others mattered. Nothing and no one else would have any meaning in any of this, the voice of a ghost answered in her mind.
Knowing this was not the case, Kalika crushed out her cigarette. All her friends, her family, her every experience would then be totally meaningless if it had really begun with that first "character" in her book. There had to be more. There had to be a deeper, truer beginning.
"But when?" she asked.
Settling herself more comfortably in her booth at the table, Kalika let her eyes wander back to the nightscape beyond the window. Slowly her mind drifted back across the years....