Once upon a time, there was a man in utter despair. This man is called Lark, and this is his story. On this day, his world has collapsed. His home is gone, his job is lost, and all that he has worked for has been destroyed in a few moments. He firmly believes that his life is over, and that it would be better for him and everyone else if he died. While he thinks about these things, he begins to walk. He walks away from his city, hardly caring, not noticing where he is going, still walking onward and onward. He walks through town after town, and as he goes the towns get smaller and smaller, and as he goes, the places he walks through become steadily more wild. Eventually he stops, and all around him is wilderness, nature untouched by human hands or influence. “Here,” Lark says to himself, “Here I will die.” Lark lies down in this wild place, feeling the rough edges of plants against his exposed flesh, and the muted pressure of them through his clothes; but these sensations barely register through his despair, which was too overwhelming to have room for anything else. He just lay there for so long, unable to even move to end his pain because of the immense burden of his own failing that lay upon him like a mountain.
Miles above the man wanting his life to end, something of a far different nature was beginning. Whether such beginnings come, what causes them, and how exactly they do start is a mystery not yet unraveled. Perhaps it is the sky whispering poems to the earth below, or perhaps it is some scientific jargon written in a dark lab by people who have never truly looked at the sky in their precise lives, or perhaps there is no reason to it at all, and it just is. There is no denying that it has some magical, some playful and whimsical property to it though, as new things begin. This began simply, with water droplets suspended in open space, which glided closer together and darted apart, gathering abstractly and forming hazy films, which then thickened and shifted and grew, becoming great fluffy white clouds that blew softly about the sky, caressed by the wind. As these clouds were herded together, they formed darker patches, pregnant with water that longs to return to the earth that it nourishes. More clouds gathered, and more, forming an enormous dark cloak across the sky, shielding the earth from the sun, and casting a darkening shadow upon all that falls below it. The wind that moves the clouds becomes less playful, less gentle, more demanding and harsh, forcing the clouds to form great dark masses and move swiftly across the sky. The commanding wind moves the clouds and shapes them, creating something from them that is different, more whole: a great storm now dominates the atmosphere, whipping the sky with its fury at containment, shrieking winds and foreboding rumbles threaten its eminent escape to rush down upon the earth.
The man below has closed his eyes, not wanting to see the world about him. He is tired, so exhausted, but sleep will not come to him. He sees, under his closed lids, that the former brilliant sunlight of the day is being darkened, that the sun is being hidden behind thickening clouds. He wonders for a moment if he will still be aware and feeling when the rain begins to fall. He decides that the storm suits his mood, and has a brief fanciful thought that perhaps his despair called up this very storm, but quickly dismisses the thought as ridiculous, and goes back to contemplating darker things. His thoughts are interrupted by the wind, which begins to push at him, snatching at his clothes and rushing through his hair. This makes it difficult to concentrate on his despair, but he perseveres, determinedly considering what his family will think of him, and how his friends will doubtless abandon him in favor of someone who is not a failure, who does not ruin anything and everything. He remembers a homeless man he saw one day on his way to work, and he wonders what his life would be like, living on the streets day by day, not knowing what was going to happen, sleeping where he could, scrapping for food, having no home and no one to care about. He decided that this was not the life that he wanted, that he could not endure such a life. Lark reached into his pocket, drew out the little knife that he had used, it seemed a very long time ago, to open things or for other small tasks. It seemed like such a small, innocent thing; Lark felt a sudden sadness at the task he was to put it to, and he was flooded with doubts and a lack of sureness. He sat up, and placed the knife a little ways in front of him, where he could see it clearly, but it was not too close to him. Lark felt just a bit queasy, thinking about that shape cold edge biting into his warm living flesh, so he tried not to think about it much; but sitting there, staring at the knife, he could not help himself. He had the sudden thought that it would take far more than one cut to accomplish the task with so tiny a knife, and that thought made him move just a bit farther away from it. He inwardly cursed himself for not being more prepared for this moment, though he had never considered that he would be in this situation. He gathered his thoughts, steeled himself, and picked up the knife again, holding it to his skin. He tightened his grip, and a tiny line formed along his skin, the deepest red he had ever seen.
