It hadn’t always been a thought. Now it was. Just a thought, a faint whisper in the corridors of the stately country manor, a thought that belonged to no one but…him.
He was the thought’s friend, someone who drifted along the corridors of the mansion in a haunted state, reflecting on loss, and becoming weighed down by the cost of that loss.
The thought channelled a pleasant idea into the friend’s powerful brain, one of hope, it made him stronger, and in time, it made him cherish the thought.
Then, over time, the friend began to resent the thought, so much so that he would conspire to defeat it, he would send it into distress, and he would make it question its own right to exist.
He asked it a question that dared not be answered.
For an idea to exist, a thought must occur to bring it into substance, but what truly came first? The thought or the idea?
The thought didn’t like to feel this way, it liked to remain in control, thoughts, it believed, were instructions, ways of communicating how the universe would like people to proceed, to perform.
Thoughts weren’t to be questioned, instructions weren’t to be ignored, and people should never cease to proceed or perform.
It was not the way of the world.
The ‘friend’ seemed tailor-made for mischief, and ultimately committed to making the thought suffer, that he asked this question for several days and nights, even in his deepest of sleeps, until the thought could not stand to speak to him, and in time, it was driven from the estate, leaving the fellow traveller along with no familiar thought to call his own. All he had left was action.
Perhaps that is why he left the manor, and dared not come back.
Afraid the thought would find him again, and speak its business.
Years passed, and the former friend of the thought would travel some more, he would find renewed companionship, it would find a whole new identity five times over, and he, now she, would find a family.
Little did she know that the thought had given itself time to reflect upon itself, it had dared not asked the question, but it had come up with a much simpler answer.
It would travel to where it’s former friend had settled, it would creep into her head and it would remind her of the wrongs she had wrought upon it, hoping in time she would beg it’s forgiveness.
Nothing could be made right. Nothing could be put back the way it was, the question was there, in the ether, in the very fabric of collective thinking spread out across the entire galaxy, it would not stop, even if it had been definitively answered a thousand times, for there would always be a new soul to challenge.
It too, had become a thought, and the thought that we know could not escape it.
The thought had become tangible, real, a telekinetic force of great invisible energy, but it’s rage was quite lethal, it had intruded already on many humbler minds, and left them scarred, or in despair, or worse.
That would be what it would inflict upon its former friend when it found her again, and the dream was drawing nearer to realisation.
It passed through Earth’s atmosphere, having travelled far into space and back again on its travels, and entered a fog-ridden corner of Sheffield. Using its abilities, the thought moved steadily along,
And then, there it was, there came the familiar ideas, the old questions.
It had found him. Now her.
And the thought, now fragrance, would linger