I'll wait as long as it takes. For your wars to finally have meaning once you reach the end. So that the misshapen sculpture of your existence can finally attain martyrdom, so that the crevices that run deep within can be seen as beautiful. So that your self-immolation burns as bright as the high-noon sun of a cicada-filled summer.

As long as I'm here, there's meaning to it all. Willingly or begrudgingly, you toil away for a dream that was never your own to begin with. For an existence you never wanted but embraced all the same. That's all anyone can do, right? Not knowing what it all means, you try the best that you can to attain some sort of true happiness—one that isn't fleeting.

The halls were filled with voices that praised your utopia. In comparison to everyone else's, yours was pristine and whole. The weather was always fair, the people were always joyous, and the crops grew in fertile land for years on end. It rained when it needed to; the sun blessed the land right after. The birds sang a song only known to them, but you knew that it echoed the elation of the people looking up at them from below. All was well. All was right. All was what it should have been. As long as I was there.

But you know, the weather was only fair when you demanded it to be. The birds sang because that's all you allowed yourself to hear. The voices of the many drowned each other out. Or maybe they were an ancient echo of a forgotten one. Who knows? All I know is that the Garden of Eden was for the many, never the few. In sovereignty, the voices of the people only truly matter if the powers that be deem such to be true.

As long as I was there, the truth was dissent. The garden was whole, so why would there need to be any dissatisfaction from the people and animals that lived there? An idyllic existence was all that existed—all that was needed to exist. Walking away was unfathomable.

When I was the only one there, the garden was a valley of the nameless. The skies were inkblots of a washed-out gray on a stark canvas. The winds carried on them either the lament of the monster that lived there or the regrets of its fallen victims. Both were equal tragedies, when it's all said and done. The monster was burdened with the inequitable recompense of the indifferent universe that created it. As long as it was there, there was meaning. Only in solitude was it ever forgiven for its existence.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

The rain fell forever even when the sun was shining in Eden. The sovereign's parade brought with it the elation of its congregation and the solemn hum of a forgotten one. The harvest brought out and fed the many, while the one hid and sought out the silence that was its only true companion. When the monster was seen, it evoked the worst in all the people of Eden. It was enough for all of them to know that it was there, but to be seen was an act of treason. Hung a million times over, the monster was the canvas upon which Eden painted out their darkest desires and most gruesome thoughts. As long as it's there, there's meaning to the paradise that shone for them but rained for the monster.

One day, the monster hid away and wept. Uncontrollably. To the highest peak beyond the borders of Eden, it exiled itself and cried for eons. It tried its best to stop, but the seas swirled and storms ran rampant in the sky, as if nature itself was on its side. The crops weren't as bountiful as they'd been since time itself began here. Eden was not what it used to be. The sovereign was furious since this single act had upended all of their efforts. In their heart, they cursed the monster for its selfishness. Surely the happiness of the many was far greater than that of the one crestfallen beast. The storms grew worse, and at some point, the howling of the winds was that of the monster itself. The sovereign climbed to the highest peak, knowing that the monster would be up there.

Once they reached the summit, they found nothing. Yet the monster's cries echoed forever. The sovereign hurled incessant insults and curses toward the monster in the storm. The storm raged on. Soon, Eden was far worse than the stark valley of the nameless that the monster had once called its home. Soon, the people left Eden. One by one, they all walked off in different directions—all except for the sovereign.

The storms never stopped. The sovereign continued its insults for years and years. Soon, they stopped hearing the monster, and the tempestuous weather ceased. Surely this meant that the bountiful Eden would return? But it didn't.

Nobody knows what happened to the monster. Some say it had given in to its sorrow; others say that it had cursed the land from the skies above. All that's left is speculation.

As long as it was there, there was meaning. One can only hope that the valley of the nameless called to it once more. One can hope that wherever it is, there's no sun or rain. Just the gray blanket of solitude that was always its solitary Eden.