Art is the window into infinity. The bridge between the abstract and the physical. The empire Ozymandias forged still dominated the world. Ruled by one corrupt ruler after another. The people, baptized in the fires of poverty, called for its end. But none of this mattered to the painter on the banks of the silver river. He was creating art, or rather one piece of art. He painted the river he spent his life watching. And to this day I believe that the painting he created is the most valuable thing on the planet. He had no training, no supplies, but he captured the essence of the raging river in such a powerful way that the weak of mind cannot look upon it. It will sweep them away, cut through their minds as it once cut through the land. Dedication leads to perfection. But he created something greater than perfection. A cut to sever even the void. How?

The empire was growing. A hundred years after Ozymandias’s death it still stood. It now encompassed nearly a hundred cities and their countryside, sprawled along the two life-giving rivers, the silver river and the gold river. It was a sight to behold, as they innovated and grew at clearly noticeable speeds. They had begun to write and they had begun to observe. I normally would be ecstatic that they were finally starting to notice the world around them, but I was watching someone else.

On the banks of the Silver River, there was a small village. In the small village, an equally small boy sat. He stared at the river with a single-minded dedication that painfully reminded me of Angelica. He had been staring at that river for every day of his short life. I stared with him, wondering what he was seeing. Soon, his mother came and gathered him up. I wasn't worried. I knew he would be back in the morning.

Day after day he stared at that river. The seasons changed and the years passed. The river rose and fell, flooded and dried. The world moved and people changed. Yet all the boy did was watch the river, content to let the world pass him by.

Finally, something changed. The boy reached maturity by the standards of his people. There was a ceremony that night. They danced and sang and laughed. But throughout it all, the boy only watched the river. The following morning, the boy was given enough food for 3 days, and with only the clothes on his back, he was kicked out of the house, as was tradition. The boy, now a man, simply went back to his spot by the river. But this time he did something different. He picked up a stick and drew a line in the dirt. Impossibly, the line looked like the river. Then he went back to looking at the river. His people found him there a few hours later, wondering why he hadn't left the village. He didn't respond, staring at the river as he always had. Then they saw the line. There was no more discussion that day.

Life for the man became routine again. Every day he would go to his spot by the river, draw a line in the dirt, and spend the rest of his day watching the river. Day after day he drew that line. Day after day the line grew more powerful, more nuanced. I watched him as he watched the river. Drew him as he drew the canal. But I never learned how he put so much in a single line.

The seasons turned and the years passed. In a flash, the man, now an old man, was still watching the river, still drawing his lines. He was ancient now. The oldest in his village. Perhaps the oldest in the empire.

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One day, a young man returned to the village, after having left upon achieving manhood. He carried with him a sheet of brittle papyrus and a bottle of clotted ink. He was excited, gesturing wildly to the old man and back to the paper. The eyes of the villagers lit up one by one as realization hit them. If they could capture just one line on that papyrus…

They went up to the old man and asked. He said nothing, staring at the river as always. The next day they asked again, and then the next, and then the next.

Day after day they asked. The day blended into weeks and the weeks into months.

Finally, nine months later, as the sun fell, the old man turned to them,

“Tomorrow” he gurgled, like the burbling of a creek.

The next day, the village gathered, holding aloft the sheet of papyrus. The old man arrived, and for the first time in his long life, he didn't pick up his stick. Instead, he sat down and stared at the river. The crowd slowly trickled away as time passed, but I watched with attentiveness.

I could feel the momentum building.

This would surpass any mortal creation.

Perhaps he would be the first to truly shed mortal shackles.

The river picked up in strength as if preparing itself. The winds picked up and the trees bent away. Soon only the boy that had brought the papyrus remained, struggling against the wind. The river finally spilled over its bank and wrapped around the ankles of the old man.

Finally, he stood up.

The boy held aloft the papyrus hopefully, but the old man walked right by him. He picked up his old stick and walked to the boy. He took the papyrus in hand and looking closely at it, frowned. I knew what he was thinking. This was no medium strong enough for his river.

So I blessed him, guided his actions.

He plunged the papyrus into the river water, and when he removed it it was papyrus no more.

The boy gaped, but the old man continued unabated. He set the medium on the surface of the river, and prepared for his masterpiece. Finally, he was ready. With a single movement, he soaked his stick in the river water, then plunged it into his heart. His blood and the river water mixed. The boy cried out in shock. He took a single step forward and ripped the stick out of his heart in a shower of blood.

He swung.

The world seemed to be cut as something immense forced its way through. The power of a mighty river, contained in the stick of an old man. The boy collapsed, dead, his very soul having been shredded by the sight of the cut. Across that paper lay a single, impossible straight line, horizontally bisecting it. The old man looked at it for a second, and for the first time in his life, he smiled.

“I shall call it The River.”

He collapsed dead the next moment, body and soul spent in an act of creation beyond him.

The river he loved so much washed away his body, and his River.

I collected up his soul imprint and weaved it into the river he had spent so long watching.

They would be one.

Till the end.