Previously on Free Will, our Author had come to a conclusion that this world is full of two kinds of individuals; those who do, the Creators that actively change the world for better or worse, and the Zombies. The idea of Zombies seemed to consume him, it’s a concept so simple yet terrifying; that the mass amount of individuals in this world are doing nothing of substance and are just letting the world do unto them. That to exist in your own world without any form of choice in the matter, you are just a tool for the world’s narrative.

Now, before we continue, I believe it imperative that we define these ideas and words that cloud his mind into submission. Narrative is rather important here, if you couldn’t tell by now. Entities within this world are struck with the burden of radicality. There’s never a moment in which they are not being affected by of affecting another entity within the world. Each individual entity goes through its very own personal interactions to form a wholly unique intra-action that becomes the entities narrative. The way it views the world, the way you (the reader), and the way the Author view the world are all very specific narratives. How special it must feel to be so unique.

The world, now that’s a difficult one to define. It is everything all at once and some things at a time. It is you, it is the Author, it’s Joe on the corner eating apple sauce from a tin can. Sometimes you face the world, sometimes you are the world, sometimes you leave the world. Every interaction takes place within the world, which then becomes one fluid intra-action. But each interaction also has its own intra-action that defines those bounds, just like the larger intra-actions have their own definitions. Everything in this “world” is in constant interaction, constant negotiation, with every other thing within. Narrative vs Narrative, perpetual stasis of negotiation.

With these definitions in mind, it becomes rather clear why the Author would enter a mental defensive state and run away from the responsibility of knowledge. If everything causes everything else, then nothing is actually your own personal choice. There is no Free Will when you are not free to exclude yourself of the world’s influences. Yet, the Author couldn’t not face this fact and ran away into the thick brush of a dangerous forest. He decided a Creator makes choice, a Creator can have Free Will. We return to him now, alone in his chambers with every care of the world on his mind.

The Author paced back and forth, his right arm clutching the elbow of his left. Left hand to his mouth, he was biting his nails down to their whites. His bright hazel eyes twitched and flicked with each new thought that sprouted into his mind. Often a fear, seldom a calm, always a realization, his eyes sought no location but within. When his fingers began to bleed, he slid his hand into his hair and began to scratch. Hair follicles stretched out over every inch of his carpeted floor. The corner of his mouth began to bleed when the biting became too hard.

Back and forth, back and forth, he walked with an unknown determination until suddenly his movement ceased. Facing his desk, his arms dropped to his side, head raised and mouth closed. For the first time in minutes, his eyes had seen past the confines of his own mind. Upon navigating the destructive fog of his thoughts, the eyes rested upon one lone object: the Four Sided Die.

The Author quickly rushed to the table, pulling the chair out in a motion so erratic he’d have launched it into the next room if not for the force of his ass hitting the seat. Feet from the desk, the Author reached his right hand over to the Die and felt it’s rough texture beneath his smooth fingers. His mind wraps around the Die, a Pyramid of Fate designed by Choice, and he signals to each side an option. A preference for the gods of either One, Two, Three, or Four.

The Author slowly scooted forward towards the desk, pulling his chair upwith his bloodied left hand. When perpendicticality is reached, he places the Die in the center. His left hand raises to scratch the patchy hair on top of his head, and shortly after comes the right. Then after a sudden stop, he lowers his arms to the table. Palms flat, three inches from either side of the Die, his eyes never losing their aim.

His hands curl on their outer sides, the tension in his heart transfers to the hands as they precisely begin to clench in what feels like hours. Upon full clench, the right is first to give way as it peels and slowly raises above the Die. The index, middle, and thumb all extend downwards like the hand of God towards his creation: The Four Sided Die. The Author picks up the Die, feels it in his palm rolling around in its super pyramid-like fashion. He closes his fist around the Die, closes his eyes for a moment, feels a cool rush of air speed through his nostrils and a warm excess out his mouth. His eyes open and releases the Die into the air. His eyes follow as it rises and falls through the air, cutting through all thoughts and prayers, landing in destiny.

1. The Author’s jaw weakens at its hinges to the point he can’t pick it up without using his palms. His eyes shook from the fear that number etched into his soul. The Author jolts away, pushing every ounce of strength through his biceps and into his palms as they strike the sides of his table. When his legs were cleared, he rose with a jolt of adrenaline. His hair stood on every square inch of his body. His mouth dried and the pores cried in terror. The Author, shaking for the moment, begins to cry and curl his body every so slightly until he collapses into a ball on the floor.

I knew it, I knew it, I knew it it it it it. everything I’ve ever done has controlled everything in every one’s life. But they’ve also controlled every aspect in my life. Control control control, nothing is controllable. We hurt, we love, we give, we take, nothing is ours and nothing is theirs. All I can do is fuck up the perfect little narratives everyone has and all they can do is fuck up mine. Yeah, it’s them, it’s me. That’s the issue, the duality of existence, the binary of life. There’s no them without me, there’s no me without them. The world ceases to negotiate if I refuse to listen. Don’t act, shut it out. Shut the world out until it comes crumbling down without you. Nothing will matter then, it’s all just dust and sand mixed into an urn.

The Author’s mental shock has sent him into a bout of permanent societal and humanistic paralysis. He was consumed by the concept, by the reality in which he is not his own being. The Author can find no acceptance in a Life forever entwined with the world. As he shakes back and forth, he can remember questioning why his parents never got a divorce when things were so clearly not working out. A mistake he had sworn he would never make.

And there our Author remained for the rest of his days. Locked inside a protective shell, divorced from the realities of this world. Nobody would attend to his house, or the yard, and they would subsequently begin to fall apart as nature took its diminutive control. The neighbors would lobby the city council to enforce some semblance of order on the property, but some sort of higher being would see to it that the hearings were always ineffective. This inability to correct natures hold would result in the neighbors moving across town and the rest of our Author’s block collapsing into disrepair.

His family would worry and panic, but the uncut power lines would prove to create a plethora of challenges. Even when they would arrive at his home, they’d only receive a pre-recorded message a la Ferris Bueller. An aggressive cutting of the ties would leave his relationships in emotional shambles. A lesson he could’ve learned in life had things been slightly different.

The Author’s last moments were spent clutching his notes, all with various forms of “fREE wiLL!?! WHAT does it MEan” scratched about, in the fetal position humming a rosary. His body entering decomposition shortly thereafter. Nature stretching its tentacles across the Author’s face and dragging him into the heart of the world.

His hands curl on their outer sides, the tension in his heart transfers to the hands as they precisely begin to clench in what feels like hours. Upon full clench, the right is first to give way as it peels and slowly raises above the Die. The index, middle, and thumb all extend downwards like the hand of God towards his creation: The Four Sided Die. The Author picks up the Die, feels it in his palm rolling around in its super pyramid-like fashion. He closes his fist around the Die, closes his eyes for a moment, feels a cool rush of air speed through his nostrils and a warm excess out his mouth. His eyes open and releases the Die into the air. His eyes follow as it rises and falls through the air, cutting through all thoughts and prayers and landing in destiny.

2. His tension fades, he feels no worry or anger. Content has lain claim to the Author’s heart and mind. The Die rests in the middle of the table and the Author takes but one glance in its direction before standing up from his chair. He turns and leaves his room without a moment’s hesitation. No thought, no worry, no anxiety, no pain.

The Author has accepted the world for its perceived horror. He walks out the door without a care, or even a shoe in the world. The pearly white door left wide open reveals a tunnel system of mental webs and verbal gymnastics. A tunnel lined with trip mines and explosives that even the Apex of gymnasts would struggle to learn. A tunnel of twists and turns leading towards seemingly impossible realities and understandings. A tunnel of fear and anxiety that confuses the mind and destroys the will of those trapped within. A labyrinth.

The Author followed the string and escaped just in time to avoid the minotaur. He walked out and into a world of the unknown. A world in which he is neither unprepared or prepared. A world in which he will travel for miles and miles, winding up at yours, his, and her front door, just never more than once. He eats what the world gives him, he poops where the world lets him, he talks to who the world shows him. A true Third-Act-Forrest-Gump if there ever was one.

His family had lost him and their hearts, unsure of where he went in life. His friends felt lost and empty, his home left in shambles, and his life left in a dumpster. A dumpster defined by hope and love for the world, a dumpster that brings with it an opportunity for a life left alone. A life without the interaction, a life of pure intra-action.

His hands curl on their outer sides, the tension in his heart transfers to the hands as they precisely begin to clench in what feels like hours. Upon full clench, the right is first to give way as it peels and slowly raises above the Die. The index, middle, and thumb all extend downwards like the hand of God towards his creation: The Four Sided Die. The Author picks up the Die, feels it in his palm rolling around in its super pyramid-like fashion. He closes his fist around the Die, closes his eyes for a moment, feels a cool rush of air speed through his nostrils and a warm excess out his mouth. His eyes open and releases the Die into the air. His eyes follow as it rises and falls through the air, cutting through all thoughts and prayers and landing in destiny.

3. The left corner of the Author’s upper lip raises, bringing with it a blood covered tooth and a tongue to clean it off. His eyes sharpen, his glare narrows, and his head droops down. His gaze is lost, it hasn’t returned inwards, rather exploded outward.

Heh… he..ha..haha. haHa .. HaHaHAHAHaHahahaaaaa

The Author’s smile drops and is brought back within seconds. Snot slowly begins to leak its way out above a waterfall of drool.

It doesn’t matter.. None of it matters. They make my choice, I make their choice, what even is a choice. Definitely not something we have any fucking control over. It’s more of an idea. An idea sent here to destroy us all, to push our little tiny brains into little tiny compartments of dreams and fantasy. Each one unique to the other, each one so goddamn special.

“It’ s meeeee meeeee meeee.” The Author’s arms wave about in circles like a child trying to catch their balance.

That’s all you people ever think about, that’s all this world thinks about. That’s fine, you can live in your reality..

The author begins to be fueled by a primal fisted rage. He strikes the table on every beat, strikes it like you would if a wolf was digging its teeth into your leg, tearing at the flesh and refusing to let go.

But know that it’s just that, your reality. It’s a narrative formed by a world, a world of you and me and them and us and none at the same time. It’s a narrative that you don’t control, you just negotiate with. Well, it’s time to flip the fucking paradigm. Make the world negotiate with me. I am no longer the antithesis, synthesis will be the world’s responsibility.

The Author proceeded to hastily gather all of his things, making sure not to forget the knife in his desk.. Or to leave his wallet. He moves through his hallways and reaches the door. The gold turns and the pearls swing and he has entered the world. He begins to walk for a moment before stopping on the edge of the street. He listens shortly before he turns right.

At the end of the street he sees a man parking his car on the curb. The Author waits behind a bush until he gets out. The man steps out, the Author rushes. Each step pounding into the ground a force that would cause an earthquake five counties west. He holds the man up with a knife and demands the keys. He gets them.

The Author gets in the driver’s seat, turns on the engine, the AC, and flips on 104.7 KISS FM. He closes his eyes and breathes in the air around him while stroking the steering wheel. Then he flips the lids, puts the car into motion, and the engine erupts with a roar of demons and anger that could fuel a star.

The first thing our Author does is drive his newly found car into parking meter after parking meter, nearly hitting a couple people but successfully dodging when needed. A glimmer of sun in his eye to the left revealed a shiny jewelry store. He turns his car a sharp 90 degrees and drives the vehicle about five feet into the store front. Nobody was hit, but one man did have a heart attack later that night. I am unsure if it is connected.

Okay okay okay. Time to get some looooot. Man, you’re an old man, hope that didn’t scare you too bad. He. Damn, are you all employees here? Not one customer? I guess someone’s gotta take these jewels, right?

The Author grabs everything that exploded onto the floor after his attack on the store front. Having filled his pockets he began to walk back to the car. He stops just before the old man and stares at his car motionless for a moment. Then, with a quick turn

BOO!

The Author skips back into the car. It doesn’t initially start, a nice chig chig… chig chig… and nothing else. But the Author gives it a rub and a song, one that his mother used to hum to him, and he tries once more.

The demon roars.

The cops are now on his back, he’s on a four lane road going south at 89 mph and rising. The cops are gaining. A patrol car slowly approaches the right rear tire. The Author glances right and sees it through the side mirror. He smacks the breaks and is now at the left rear tire of the patrol vehicle. He turns right into the patrol car and hits the gas. The patrol car spins in front of the Author’s and eventually flips and rolls for a grand total of 13 flips. The judges would’ve given it a ten out of ten.

Another patrol car pulls up. The Author tries the same trick, but it fails. No change in position seems possible. The Author speeds up as sweat begins to pour out of every pore. His hands tighten around the steering wheel as he sees a blockade set up down the road.

Here we go. Haha. Wooo. hOO WOOWOOOOOO!!!

The Author slams the pedal down as hard as he can. The car speeds up faster and faster. The police blockade has an unseen line of spikes ten yards in front. The Author’s car flies through, his tires explode, his vehicle turns to the left and he slams into an armored truck.

The impact was powerful enough to break any life in half. The subsequent 180 flip of the vehicle would’ve killed him twice over. But none of that really matters when you take into account the fact that he never put on his seat belt.

The Author was found thirty feet off the side of the road, skin shredded and burnt from the slide.

His hands curl on their outer sides, the tension in his heart transfers to the hands as they precisely begin to clench in what feels like hours. Upon full clench, the right is first to give way as it peels and slowly raises above the Die. The index, middle, and thumb all extend downwards like the hand of God towards his creation: The Four Sided Die. The Author picks up the Die, feels it in his palm rolling around in its super pyramid-like fashion. He closes his fist around the Die, closes his eyes for a moment, feels a cool rush of air speed through his nostrils and a warm excess out his mouth. His eyes open and releases the Die into the air. His eyes follow as it rises and falls through the air, cutting through all thoughts and prayers and landing in destiny.

4. The tension is released with a sigh. Calm seeps itself into every pore and fiber of the Author’s being. His eyes go still and a peaceful light lifts his cheeks and eyebrows into the heavens. He pushes himself and the chair out from the desk and turns towards his closet. He rises and moves with a grace most notably reserved for the prowess of a ballerina, each step leaving only a presence of warmth in their wake.

The Author arrives at the closet door and opens the collapsing door without a single hesitation. For once in its existence it managed not to get caught up in its own tracks, even though he incessantly cleaned them weekly to avoid the inconvenience. It never actually worked, as he would have to buy replacement handles for the door on the regular. But today, in this exact moment, it seemed to work perfectly. In fact, everything was more fluid than life had argued before. His ties tied smoother, his chair balanced easier, his ceiling fan held stronger, and his body swung calmer. If at least for a moment, the Author had found his perfect harmony.

His hands curl on their outer sides, the tension in his heart transfers to the hands as they precisely begin to clench in what feels like hours. Upon full clench, the right is first to give way as it peels and slowly raises above the Die. The index, middle, and thumb all extend downwards like the hand of God towards his creation: The Four Sided Die. The Author picks up the Die, feels it in his palm rolling around in its super pyramid-like fashion. He closes his fist around the Die, closes his eyes for a moment, feels a cool rush of air speed through his nostrils and a warm excess out his mouth.

The Author begins to raise his arm with the full intention of releasing the Die. His arm now across from his throat his fingers begin to slowly transition. The tension releases from tip down, as the pores decompress and begin an unfurled stretch that lasts for only a moment. The process is reversed and tension rises and dissipates throughout the soul as the hand slowly lowers back towards the table. The fist lands with a delicate power, leaving only the sweat of anxiety in its stead.

The Author grabs his phone, wallet and keys from the drawer beside him, fumbling around through papers and papers that he never quite got around to finishing. He begins to rise from his seat, Die still in hand. He turns his back and faces the closet before he begins to walk forward. Two steps forward and a pivot left send him towards the door, but he stops within its frame. The Author’s head is down, staring plainly at the ground. His right hand shakes for a moment just before his head rises. He turns thirty degrees to the left and throws the Die into the air. It’s path was beautiful, a holistic representation of a butterfly’s wings sending the whole world tumbling downward. Down and down it goes, flying through concern and fear, until it lands with a thunk in the trash between vomit and tissues.

The Author proceeds out the door and through his hallways. A left turn, a right turn, and a big white door that marks the spot. He grabs his Chucks off the door-adjacent shoe rack and hunches over to tie them. Upon completion, he grabs the doors golden handle and sets off into the world. There is no solid sense that the Author can distinguish, it’s muddled into a single form of pure instinct. Nothing is known, nothing is knowable, the Author acts upon the moment with the purests of minds. This is now and now is all he has.

Comedian who writes funny things but also super dark and depressing things; very original