The noise, clamorous and grating, brought him into the world, a white world of light and sound.

He struggled, feeling his limbs moving sluggishly, rebelling against his sudden control. If only he could return, back to the blessed darkness from which he had newly emerged. But there was no going back. The noise bade him onward, and so, his new eyes scorched by the light of a first morning, he rose and was.

What was his purpose? Why had the noise awakened him from the blissful contentment of nothingness? He searched for meaning, but there was none. The noise had departed, leaving only the light.

But in its place, a new sensation arose to drive him, as a taskmaster drives an unwilling servant. Hunger. One of the three great primal desires, it forced growth upon his body. Stumbling, haltingly, he took his first steps.

Now the memories came, the instincts, the driving forces of his future life. He had a purpose after all, one that would not wait on his readiness. He had to prepare, and with haste.

But first, to eat.

As he ate, he grew in body and mind. He recalled the nature of his purpose and the tasks that lay ahead of him, if not their reason. But deep down he knew; reason or not, he had to go. He had to prepare.

His hunger sated, he began to ready himself in earnest. He had grown again, past the stage of life where sustaining himself was meaning enough. Delving further, he garbed himself in the likeness of man as he hurried from one task to the next. He would not likely be back here until the later quarter of his life, so anything he might need, he must take with him.

And finally, the time of preparation was over. Without looking back, he exited the land of his birth, and set out into the wider world, his back broad, his steps long, as he sought out his purpose.

His home behind him, he noted for the first time that he was not alone. Countless others journeyed with him, their purpose pulling them along like puppets on a string. Some walked, some ran, some shambled, but all continued onward without rest, their eyes cast down.

Not a one raised their eyes to regard the others as fellow travellers along life’s paths. Each was consumed with their own purpose, and paid heed to little else.

The journey was long, and by the time he had reached his destination, he had grown a little older. His youth was behind him, years of toil ahead.

And so, he began.

It was not gratifying labour. In fact, he found himself regularly questioning the purpose of it all. But to every question, there was one certain answer; “He who does not work shall not eat”. And so, he toiled on.

This is not to say the purpose consumed his whole life. There were blessed moments of reprieve, brief breaks in his endless, meaningless drudgery. It would be no exaggeration to say he lived for these breaks, and no sooner was one vacation completed than his eyes were fixed on the next.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

And then the next.

This carried on, on, on. He grew smarter, he grew stronger, he grew older. And then, when he had finished growing, he began diminishing. What was a simple matter earlier now became a challenge; what was a challenge before now became an impossibility. He wanted to rest. He wanted to close his eyes and let the nothingness overtake him.

But the purpose wasn’t finished with him, and too tired of fighting, he carried on.

Finally, having taken all it could take, the purpose released him. For the first time since his earliest moments, he was free! Nothing else was expected of him, all strings had been severed. With nowhere else to go, he returned home.

But now, home was dark and empty. He paused. Why had he come here? More than that, what was he even going to do now? He knew deep down he had dreamed of this time of freedom, of being his own master, of being able to do what he wanted instead of what was required.

But now, he was tired, tired.

His dreams from so long ago seemed far off now, like a half-remembered tale someone had told him once upon a time. And so, with nothing left to do, he laid down, closed his eyes, and let the darkness claim him.

*******

The noise, clamorous and grating, brought him into the world, a white world of light and sound.

Yanked unwilling from the embrace of nothingness, he opened his eyes and cried, the first cry of a newborn. Another day. Or was it another lifetime? He couldn’t tell, they blurred together.

He had vague memories of repeating this day, this life, thousands of times before, but the merciful amnesia of the morning buried those thoughts, crystalizing them like amber into a vague, ever-present sense of unease.

But then, hunger called, and his body responded, instinct overpowering apathy.

For the twelve-thousandth time, he ate breakfast, consuming without tasting, filling without sustaining. For the twelve-thousandth time, he clothed himself and set out once more, into the wider world beyond his home domain.

Around him, the great machine to which he belonged, the clock in which he was a cog, hummed loud with the sounds of shrill abrasion, the friction of too many bodies spinning, spinning endlessly into oblivion. They bumped and jostled each other, the teeth of their gears catching and slipping, sparks flying from the meeting of mal-fitting parts forced together.

Around him, the city spun, God’s own Rube Goldberg machine, always churning and spinning, perpetuating itself to no greater purpose. The end and the means were one; to continue another day. To continue and…

…and what?

But he was here now, at the office, at the gearbox he shared with several hundred other warped and ill-fitting gears. Every cog must be used, no matter how poorly it fit. No pieces of the puzzle can be left over.

Sighing, he gave himself up to the purpose.

*******

Another day, another life, a little more of his vitality spent. He stumbled back to his dark, empty home. Someday it would end, the loop would break, and he would dive deep enough into the blackness that the noise could not revive him.

It was ironic. There was no doubt to the end, every day was a prophesy of his life, each rotation of the earth around the sun a microcosm of his entire existence upon that selfsame spinning rock. The Droste Effect had imprinted itself on this world, and he was stuck squinting to find where the repetition ended.

But now, the eleventh hour had past, and he was tired, tired, tired. Seeking his bed, he lay back and closed his eyes. Maybe tomorrow…just maybe…

And then he was away, falling into the all-too-finite black.

*******

The noise, clamorous and grating, brought him into the world, a white world of light and sound.

He got up, silencing the claxon alarm and passing a hand over his face.

12,000 lives done, 17,000 to go.

No End.