Day 60
A very determined boy went to the store and bought the biggest jigsaw puzzle he could find, composed of several thousand pieces. It was a mystery puzzle, the kind where they do not print its picture on the box, so the boy did not know what picture he'd eventually get.
Excitedly, the boy opened the box and poured all the pieces out onto the floor, only to find that every single piece was completely blank. There was no colour to be found; the only thing differentiating the cardboard cuttings was each of their individual shapes.
But the boy was determined. He spent hours, days, months trying out every possible combination of pieces, slowly putting together the edges and filling the puzzle in toward the middle. The process was arduous - a deep challenge for the boy's sense of determination in the face of what appeared to be a picture of futility and meaninglessness. Finally he finished the puzzle: a complete blank square with every little piece in place.
Unwilling to accept his endeavour as futile, the boy began to stare at the puzzle. He began to concentrate hard on the little jagged lines between all the pieces and the countless ways in which the lines could be conected to form figures, creatures, even people. Not unlike how the ancients found their constellations, the boy found all kinds of wonderous creatures within his blank construction, and in order to convince the world that these creatures were in fact there, he developed an elaborate book of drawings and directions for anyone who might want to peer at what would otherwise be a puzzle picturing absolutely nothing.
To the boy, it became the best picture he ever could have hoped for.
As time passed, he began to believe something extraordinary. He began to believe that the figures he had found and documented were there all along, made, pre-determined. He believed that the makers of the puzzle had carved out each individual piece such that these precise figures would emerge from the whole.
He bought many more puzzles, none of which were factory mistakes like his original. From each set emerged a painting, a situation, something colourfully representative of the real world. But all these puzzles seemed empty to him. They seemed like exercises in redundancy. They seemed so restrictive, so dishonest, so incomplete; there was so much less in them than there was in his beautiul white square.
The beautiful white square consumed his world. He kept on expanding his book of figures and instructions, it got bigger and bigger over the years. There wasn't a thing he'd looked at in his life that didn't end up in the book.
Finally, one day, the boy was staring at his beautiful puzzle and a horrifying chill ran up his spine.
It was not in the book. It was the last thing he ever saw.
Excitedly, the boy opened the box and poured all the pieces out onto the floor, only to find that every single piece was completely blank. There was no colour to be found; the only thing differentiating the cardboard cuttings was each of their individual shapes.
But the boy was determined. He spent hours, days, months trying out every possible combination of pieces, slowly putting together the edges and filling the puzzle in toward the middle. The process was arduous - a deep challenge for the boy's sense of determination in the face of what appeared to be a picture of futility and meaninglessness. Finally he finished the puzzle: a complete blank square with every little piece in place.
Unwilling to accept his endeavour as futile, the boy began to stare at the puzzle. He began to concentrate hard on the little jagged lines between all the pieces and the countless ways in which the lines could be conected to form figures, creatures, even people. Not unlike how the ancients found their constellations, the boy found all kinds of wonderous creatures within his blank construction, and in order to convince the world that these creatures were in fact there, he developed an elaborate book of drawings and directions for anyone who might want to peer at what would otherwise be a puzzle picturing absolutely nothing.
To the boy, it became the best picture he ever could have hoped for.
As time passed, he began to believe something extraordinary. He began to believe that the figures he had found and documented were there all along, made, pre-determined. He believed that the makers of the puzzle had carved out each individual piece such that these precise figures would emerge from the whole.
He bought many more puzzles, none of which were factory mistakes like his original. From each set emerged a painting, a situation, something colourfully representative of the real world. But all these puzzles seemed empty to him. They seemed like exercises in redundancy. They seemed so restrictive, so dishonest, so incomplete; there was so much less in them than there was in his beautiul white square.
The beautiful white square consumed his world. He kept on expanding his book of figures and instructions, it got bigger and bigger over the years. There wasn't a thing he'd looked at in his life that didn't end up in the book.
Finally, one day, the boy was staring at his beautiful puzzle and a horrifying chill ran up his spine.
It was not in the book. It was the last thing he ever saw.
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