For Ben

Stories never begin with “Once upon a time” anymore. I imagine there must have been a time when “Once upon a time” was the noblest salutation a storyteller could say to preface his tales. No longer, I guess. Compulsion urges us for constant change — and so we bend a little each time so that our constructions take on slightly unfamiliar shapes. There’s no nobility to be found in tradition these days, because the familiar is crude, and woefully cliché.

Once upon a time, a friend of mine died. He never quite learned just how to bend. He was a writer, something like me. They found him hunched in his chair with an exit wound shattering the calm of his right temple. He was left-handed. On the desk in front of him laid a pen and an empty page, haphazardly soiled by blood and mental debris.

Inspiration once flowed through him so naturally, but he could never commit his thoughts to language on an open page. Every sentence he ever wrote meant labored pain. He could always capture beginnings, but could never retain a satisfying end. Colloquialism felt too familiar, and the grandiose often felt strained. He figured, by the end, not a single original thought in the world remained.

Now he’s gone. Life motioned to bend him, and he chose instead to break. Once upon a time, my friend allowed himself to die. I wonder if he ever realized that his fear of the cyclical kept him running in place.