Rambling

Good job you found it. Here are my words

[technicallyfood]

Familiarity

What is familiar?

Why is familiarity comforting?

What happens when you begin to find yourself experiencing familiarity without the context to understand it?

It is terrifying to find yourself in a familiar world that you don’t remember.

It is lonely.

[technicallyfood]

Sometimes I am looking for the perfect question.

A question that shakes me to my core.

It will stir up deep and strange thoughts.

Nothing that I eve do will be more important than the question.

Then I realize that there is no question like that.

I am not capable of asking such a big and new question.

Realizing that makes me want to stop questioning.

But I won't.

I will keep asking questions.

If there is no way to ask one big important question,

Then I will ask a million small unimportant ones.

[technicallyfood]

What is the question?

People have a habit of avoiding a particular question. It is one that slowly nags at the back of their minds until it is ripe as a bright yellow banana in the hand of the monkey in a glass cage. 

When the question gets too big to ignore people make distractions that are bigger. They make big ideas, ideas as big as 2 chickens stacked on top of each other. 

People start stacking ideas on top of ideas. With a sound oddly similar to the thunk of dropped rock falling on a flightless variety of poultry that was enjoying a particularly pleasing bit of dirt, someone made a Story. 

Being the first person to make a story also meant being the first to suffer the fate of being unknown until after their death. Unfortunately for an impending evolution of storytelling, which was already behind schedule and regretting its decision to take public transportation, their death occurred a languorous 4 days after the invention of the Story. 

It was a jealous being with stronger arms, shorter legs, and a thicker skull that introduced the inventor of the story to an ancient and weathered tool that had previously been dropped on an unfortunate avian and was starting to enjoy being a tool of violence. 

Having driven the inventor of the story to death in the same manner that he had driven a post into the group, the jealous being started telling the Story.

He became the Storyteller. 

After telling the Story many times, the Storyteller began to grow old in the slow and gentle way that happens to people who have earned a much shorter existence. 

In the dithering days when he began to dwindle, the Storyteller stopped telling the Story. In the small quiet moments that began when the Story no longer filled his mind, a something began to swirl around. It was a familiar something. 

The something had been waiting.

The Storyteller found, in the quiet misty morning in the woods where he had stolen the Story, the Question

What is the Question