To Know a Thing or Two About Purpose

“Tell me what to do,” he says. “Tell me that I will become more than I am. Tell me that I will not die feeling like I never came to be anything, at all.” 

As he speaks, he looks into the dark eyes of something vaguely shaped like a human. The figure fits the general components of a person, but the parts are put together unexplainably. There are ill-formed and unfinished sentences written all over the face, and half-healed scars tracing every inch of two abnormally looking arms. The mutilations appear to be carvings. Each cut contains some variation of a messy, unreadable line, and each extra space is filled in by an unrecognizable shape. Most notably, this thing is very tall with an unusually wide body and full of profoundly unsymmetrical features. The left leg is inches longer than the right, and the right arm significantly wider than the left. The eyes are too big for the nearly nonexistent nose, and its mouth moves at a pace slower than it speaks. It is pale in some places and dark in others, and the words across the limbs never stay still. It is incomprehensibly in-cohesive. It took some time for the man to become accustomed to this odd and unsettling appearance, but as days turned to months, and months to years, it became the most familiar figure of all. 
He calls him Thing.  
Thing has been around since he was fourteen. He sat with him in classrooms and stands beside him at the dining table. He lays next to him at night and walks with him down every street. Thing never really leaves. Only sometimes, and those sometimes are not often enough to counter the turmoil Thing brings when he is around. 
“You have asked me this question each day, of every year, that I’ve been with you.” Thing responds, but he is not bothered by the man’s constant questioning nor is he bored by the repetitive conversations. He welcomes the confusion, and he accepts the frustrated dejection that comes each time they talk. 
“And yet, you have told me nothing of what you know.” The man despairs. “I do not want for much, and I ask for very little,” he says, attempting to negotiate, “I simply ask for a few of your words. Perhaps, just a couple of the sentences saved in your skin, to give me an idea of what it is that I am meant to be.” 
The man asks this every night, and Thing never hesitates to give his rejection-riddled response. 
“You do not ask what you are meant to be,” Thing replies, “you ask for the purpose of your being.” The room grows quieter, just like it always does, as Thing’s never-changing answer settles in the space between. “You ask for too much when you ask that of me,” Thing says, “and besides, there is no reason to give you a burden that you cannot bear.”  
Thing has never said this before. The man shifts closer from his spot on the sinking bed, feeling encouraged by this change in routine. The man nods, prompting Thing to continue. Thing presses his palms together as he makes his way to the corner of the room, taking a seat in the old brown chair. 
“I know that I burden you,” Thing admits, “but I do not wish to hurt you.” He says. “I may be constant, but I am not cruel.” 
The man does not understand. He pauses to contemplate, taking a moment to search for the right response. As he thinks, he watches the hazy words and unknown shapes across Thing’s limbs rearrange. In every passing moment, a different sentence is broken down, only to become a collection of disconnected, unintelligible words- and then there are some lines that disappear completely, only to be replaced by others immediately. The man continues to stare at the moving letters as the silence extends, but they never stay in focus long enough to make sense. Instead, they exist in an infinite phase of inconsistent clarity. Thing watches the man, as the man watches him.
Eventually, the man begins to dizzy from the constant spinning and swirling motions. He lifts his gaze to meet Thing’s, preparing to give his thoughtfully conjured response. “Tell me what I am to be,” he says, “and I will tell you that I can bear the weight of becoming it.” Thing leans forward at the man’s words, intrigued. “I can live purposefully, if I know that purpose.” He says, laying aged hands across a tired heart. “To know this will bring me reason, and it will bring me happiness,” he continues, “and if there is any weight in the world worth bearing, it is that of knowing my existence is not for nothing.” He argues. “That with my life comes reason for being.” Thing listens carefully as the man pleads his case. 
Thing knows that the man has spent nearly all of his years hoping to find this answer. He knows that the man has prayed, with a nearly unrivaled devotion, to one day wake up filled with a passion so great that the question of purpose becomes purposeless- but that day never comes. So instead, he watches the wheels of time continue to spin, and he watches himself grow older and older, and he wonders if there is any reason for him to continue growing older, at all. For the first time, Thing considers shedding more light on the man's question than he ever has before, but is pulled from his debating thoughts before reaching a decision. 
“Share with me this one answer,” the man says, “and I will know everything that I will ever need to know.” Thing can hear desperation that outlines his words, but there is never a day that it doesn't.
The man believes this with all of his heart. He believes that this single answer could end all of his longing, and cure all his despair. He has placed every ounce of the faith that fits inside his begging body, into this sole admission. Should he know why he is to be, he thinks, he will finally have a reason to be, at all. 
“If I share with you this answer,” Thing begins, feeling sympathy for the anguished man, “it will share with you a thousand more burdens.” 
“But there is an answer.” The man says, his voice soft with amazement as he soaks in the sentence. It is a confirmation that has not been given before.   
Thing has never directly said that he had an answer for the man. He has only admitted that the scars filling his arms and the words covering his face tell the story of each and every purpose. When the man first learned this, he became overjoyed with the hope of finding out his. He believed that his salvation would be found in his causation, as he could not seem to find it anywhere else. But when the man asked Thing about the scars that must be carved for him, Thing told him that he asks for too much, and the man became sorrowful. He wept, and thought of how there must be no purpose for his particular being, after all. That his existence was no more than a mere accident, an unnecessary happenstance that the world did not intend. He mourned daily for the loss of story-telling scars that he never saw. He has carried this sorrow since. The knowledge is now an anchor tied around his once hopeful heart, dragging it further and further, as Thing’s answer always remains the same. Yet, despite this, he continues to ask for these lost words, with the little faith he has left leading him on. His heavy heart refuses to quit, propelling him forward in spite of the melancholy it holds.
So, this confirmation is most glorious. Thing has given him the gift of knowing that there is an answer, that there is a reason for his being. The man could feel the anchor that had made a home at the base of his lungs begin to lift.
But there is more to what Thing said, the man remembers. He attempts to settle his excitement, beginning to recall the second half of Thing’s sentence. There is the purpose itself, the answer he has spent his whole life searching for. An answer that, according to Thing, must come at the price of a thousand more burdens. To hear this answer, he would happily accept the weight of a thousand burdens, and even a thousand more, just to lose the burden of this one. He tells Thing this, and Thing continues.
“The words that are written for you, which bridge across both my arms, will loom above your head, day and night.” Thing warns. “They will follow you through life, and stay until the moment you meet the Earth,” he says, “and after this, they will sit by your headstone as you seek eternal rest.” Thing watches as the man shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “And as these words mark your end, the world will see what you made of what you were meant to be.” The man watches as Thing rubs his thumb against his wrist, pausing his speech. His eyes begin to focus on a clump of fading letters, but his daze is soon interrupted by the sound of a scratchy voice. 
“But most of all, these words will demand fulfillment.” Thing finishes.
The man can hear Thing’s words, but he does not hear a reason great enough to outweigh his want for this answer. He does not heed any of the warnings Thing has shared. Instead, he feels rather encouraged. There is excitement starting to tingle at the tips of his fingers. This is great, the man thinks. He would never want this answer to leave him, nor would he want to risk forgetting. For these words to follow him would be a blessing, he believes. He would be remiss to lose the very thing that promises he has been written into this world on purpose, and with purpose. For the first time in a long time, his beating heart would not still. 
The man smiles, soaking in the warmth of newfound hope.
As he does this, Thing grows more serious. The man is not wary the way Thing imagined he would be. He is not dissuaded the way Thing believes he should be. 
“You will lose the blessing of ambiguity.” Thing elaborates, attempting to make the man see reason. “Should you know your purpose and fail to fulfill it, there will be no escaping the painful consequences of a heart whose lost meaning.” Thing says. “With the slightest slip, these words can change irreversibly,” he says, “and just as quickly as they gave you reason to be, they can give a purpose that feels unworthy of being.” At this, the man’s hopeful attitude begins to shift. Thing’s words have become more harrowing than happy, the man thinks.
“Should you learn what you are meant to become- in this particular moment, on this particular day-” he clarifies, “you will also learn what it means to live a life truly unfulfilled.” Thing says. “You will learn that the weight of expectation is far heavier than the weight of want.” 
Thing is still as he speaks. His tone suggests that these words have been said too many times before to mean much now, yet Thing can not help but feel as though they do, for some unbeknownst reason, mean more in this moment than they ever have before. As he tries to push the inconvenient feeling away, he scratches his thumb against his wrist, trying to soothe the achy and itching sensation. Thing begins to speak again. “Should you take the wrong step, or pick a mistaken path, the purpose I tell you now, will no longer be your purpose, at all.” Thing explains. 
“And should you fail to fulfill one proposed purpose,” he elaborates, “you will be given the potential of another.” Thing explains, in a voice slowly beginning to sound like that of a teacher who has begun to worry. “You must live with the knowledge that, if you fail to fulfill a purpose that you are proud of,” he says, “the exchange may be to carry out a fate you are ashamed of.” The man's face has become one of both concern and confusion. The lightness in his heart has now become the victim of a terribly disconcerting tug-of-war. The beating organ sits between the heavy weight of defeat and the healing feelings of hope, being pulled by one only to be yanked back by the other.
“Can you live with the weight of expectation?” Thing asks, culminating his caution with a genuine question. 
This is a weight that Thing has seldom seen a man willing to bear, and those who have taken on the pressuring prediction often come back to Thing, begging ​​to have this insight taken away. They cry, and tell him of all the ways that this foresight is anything but a gift. “It hurts too much,” they tell Thing, “to be aware of every moment, and every move I have made, which has caused the loss of a path I loved in exchange for an unwanted other.” 
Thing listens to the men, but he cannot take back this gift, nor cure their despair. So, instead, he remains quiet and allows the men to share their sorrows. He lets them lament over a life that could have been, and grieve for the loss of their bliss, which lives inside the mind of ignorance. It is one thing to know that you must act to achieve, but it is another to believe that you must act with perfect, divine alignment to fulfill a prophecy neither fated nor promised. It is near impossible to endure the finicky nature of purpose, as she has an unbearable habit of giving nonsensical answers to being. Thing knows her well, and knows just how hard she is to come by. She is much better at hiding than he has ever been.
Thing hopes the man will heed his warning, as he has grown somewhat fond of him. The man often talks to Thing as one talks to a friend, and most do not speak to Thing unless it is to demand that he bear his scars. Thing carries the weight of every existing purpose for every existing thing, all at once- and he forever endures their endless, constant torrent of change. To know of so many things, so great, is a burden of its own. Thing often wishes he did not have to bear this burden alone. 
Though his heart sinks while he listens, the man does not understand how Thing’s words could be true. 
“How can that be?” he says. “If my purpose is pre-written, already carved out into your arms, that must mean I cannot fail.” He says. “How can I unwrite what has already been written?” The man says, feeling confident in his question. If it is written, then it must be. How can he fail to become what he has already been determined to be? 
Thing takes in the man's words, thinking over how to best explain further.
“You see my arms,” Thing says, “and you watch as the words form into others?” The man nods. 
“The words written for you can easily be written into something new.” Thing explains, “The only fate promised is the promise of change.” 
Thing does not enjoy telling a person this part of their purpose. Each time that he explains this phenomenon, to every lost soul that asks, he feels for their desperate hearts. He aches for their fears and he hopes for their faith, and he wishes this knowledge to be enough. 
The man's face is no longer one of excitement, but introspection. As he thinks, he stands from the bed and walks over to a desk, one that is three sizes too small for his tall frame. The surface cannot be seen, as it is completely covered by recklessly ripped-out pages from over-read novels, and half-written paragraphs on parchment. He stares at them, unsure of what it is he is looking to find. He forgets why he got up from the bed, and he forgets that Thing is sitting in the corner of his room. 
“To be human is to be fragile.” Thing says, breaking the man from his contemplative trance. “You are not meant to bear the weight of a pre-written purpose.” He says, “You are not meant to carry the burden of an existence with expectation.” 
Thing watches the man, as he continues to stare at the scattered papers.
“And what if I can fulfill the purpose I want?” The man says, keeping his eyes trained on the desk. His voice is clear and assured. It is determined. 
He will not allow his life to be written into misery, should it be capable of being written happily, nor will he allow himself to believe that his purpose may be a pre-written tragedy- unchanging. As he thinks over Thing’s words, the man slowly begins to realize something that he has not yet considered. 
An ever-changing purpose promises eternal freedom. 
There is no purpose one must be forced to fulfill. This is life worth living, the man thinks. This is a life worth seizing. 
“Am I to spend my entire life fearing that I may misstep?” The man says, shifting through pages as he speaks. “That I am not capable of fighting for a purpose worth living?” Thing is surprised at this response, it is not one he has heard before. It is out of character for the man, Thing thinks. 
“I cannot bear to live a life where I do not matter,” the man confesses, “and I cannot bear the weight of never knowing if there is purpose to this life, at all.” He says. “Yet, you tell me that I cannot bear the weight of change.” The man postulates, “But you are wrong.” 
Thing watches from the corner as the man begins to pace, his posture assured and voice strong. The messy centers of Thing’s palms begin to sting.
“You say I cannot bear the weight of expectation- of the possibility that this purpose may change along the way,” the man says, “but there is more beauty in that admission than there could ever be in one determined.” He declares. “I am not doomed to experience an existence that culminates in misery, as I have thought many times before.” The man admits. “And should I find myself living out a purpose I do not wish to live, I can simply take a wrong step,” he observes, “or choose the wrong door, and start living a life worth pursuing.” There is an echo in the man's voice that Thing has not heard before- it is the sound of hope.
“It is a gift, Thing,” he says, “to know that there is an answer to my question, at all.” The man had never imagined that the confirmation of an answer would be answer enough, but it is a wonderful surprise, he thinks. 
“You have admitted that I have a purpose,” the man begins,” but better yet, you have promised me that I am not fated to live with a purpose that would feel purposeless.” 
He looks at Thing, with a blinding faith filling his eyes. 
“Don’t you see, Thing? Don’t you see how wonderful this is?” He says, with a voice coated in excitement. “Should you share with me the answer written now, and should I hate it, life would not cease all meaning,” the man explains, “and how freeing it is to know that my purpose to be can change along the way-” he says, “and better yet, it can be changed by me.” 
The man continues to pace back and forth, holding his hands against his face as he continues to think of all the ways in which his life has already been changed, simply by this single confession. 
Thing did not expect this, not at all. A bit of happiness rises in his heart as he watches the man walk, with each step looking a little lighter than the next. 
“You surprise me.” Thing admits with a voice containing hidden admiration. “You do not fear the burden of failure, then?” Thing asks, watching closely as he awaits the man's answer. Thing is not sure if the man would still like to be given the answer currently carved into his arms. For the first time, Thing thinks that this ever-sought-out knowledge would not lead to a painstaking, inevitable deterioration.
“I fear failure, “ the man says, his voice calm, “but the promise of change, and the promise of choice, puts that fear to shame.”
“Tell me that I can fail, and tell me that I can change,” the man says, “and I will tell you that if I can fail, I can also be saved.”

As the man turns to face the corner, he is met with nothing but an empty, old brown chair.


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