Brilliance has never been what I seek. That would be incomprehensible to me, since I neither possess the raw intelligence nor impetus to attain such lofty aspirations. But I do have points to make. Most of which will be beyond my limited capacity of articulation, but nonetheless, the goal will be fulfilled. The Needle will see to it. My humble thoughts will give way to words and ideas, which will in-turn create some thread of truth or reason that will most feasibly develop in to complex and volatile epiphanies. To the logical brain, this presented reasoning may strike one as improbable or zany, but then one comes to the recollection that he is reading a story. A story woven by the Needle, as I will refer to It. This allows for whatever limits I am given, or possess, in my ultimate reality—being this text—to be arbitrarily surpassed or manipulated by the Needle upon whim or necessity. It is within these contexts that I will continue my dissertation, my defense of the here and now. For although I will never escape the confines of these drippings of ink upon paper and the binding of this book, the symbols and ideas the Needle creates through me can transcend to the dimension beyond—to your world—the one I can never imagine, but have only been given the vaguest, most ambiguous awareness by the Needle.
My composition is simple. I am these words you read—these symbols of idealology—interpreted by your brain, which I am only privy knowledge to by means of the Needle. You then interpret and synthesize these fragmentations of Me into tangible meaning. (I do apologize for my redundancy in mentioning the influence of the Needle, but I feel as though I must continue to remind you of my Source for all I have power to Be. You see, I understand you are not yet accustomed to the limitations which I am subject, but soon enough you will understand, and I can get on better without constant interruptions of this variant of notices.) As I was developing—I am these words. The apparent pluralism of one entity encompassing a multiple quantity is possible Here where I exist. We are all composed of smaller parts that make up the entity we occupy. However, this is a matter to be treated later in my narrative. The greater convolution, to which I digress and must first address, is my ability to communicate ideas beyond my scripted level of capacity and affect a dimension entirely beyond my existence. It baffles me that I can appear in your world, yet there is never a thread of possibility that you will maneuver into mine. Fascinating actually. The Needle would have me note. But now I will move beyond this nonsense to the tale that brought me to realize this power within my existence.
It all started on a seemingly normal day—calm, gentle breeze in early autumn—in a normal neighborhood under quite normal circumstances. The leaves have just begun to tire from summer and are the brilliant golden color with splashes of red and green making each passage through them appear as a masterful artwork. The air is cool, which gives a fresh sense to life after being burnt and suffocated by the heat of the summer. It is the kind of uneventful day that gives no indication of its unlimited possibilities. There is no pressure to accomplish any single task, yet all the same there is no guilt for the lack of efficiency. The Needle is there. He leaves his humble abode and sets out on foot. He is not sure where He is going, but the gentle motion and quiet symphony of the leaves as the wind bristles through them urges his legs to join in their chorus. He strides in rhythm to their most humble melody without direction or awareness.
A passing car interrupts this involuntary movement of the world, and drags the Needle away from his unawareness and into the cognition realm of Thought. This is precisely the moment he begins to give himself account of the orderings and happenings of the day. It is now he realizes the leaves, and the music, and his movement in synch with them. It is only at the disharmony of the abrupt sounds of an automobile driving by that he is willing to entertain Reason. And this is my beginning. His mind centralizes to the idea that he once was not aware of the His existence, but by thinking about it, He takes it into account. He wonders whether or not these events would be real had the car not driven by to make Him aware of the day and of His thoughts. After all, he baffles, What are blank sensory images sent through our synapses if we attribute no effort to their analyzation and synchronization and assimilation? He wonders what else he can make a reality within the working of his mind. He scurries back to his house, and given his tendency towards science, he decides to record his thoughts, as an experiment of sorts. He picks up a pen and paper and begins whatever comes to his mind...
