V.
I am the architect.
Of a place that stretches its claws across the great white desert and disperses the flames.
Of a place that rose from the earth and transcends the earth.
But with this monumental work,
something was lost along the way. Something,
and now things will never be the same.
I was born without choice, it seems, as a searcher of truth. Not simple truths,
...or perhaps the simplest of truths.
The truth that is somewhere hidden in our existence.
There is something pure, something absolute, beyond the things that we live through. Something that life can only be a tool for.
I saw it in the geometries our mathematicians had conjured up. I saw it in the fractals of my dream space, and in the glitches in my thoughts.
I knew that I could find fulfillment of this desire for truth through architecture.
I was good with my hands and better with my eyes.
I drafted and I built, and spent much of my life watching as the most complex of patternations were spilled out onto wooden canvases, reams of paper, and scraps of metal.
I wanted the impossible design. I wanted the best, the brightest, and I began to fear that I could not ever attain it.
The fear would always be with me.
But I kept creating the most exquisite wooden sculptures, masonry and steel creatures -- buildings that caught the eyes of everyone around me.
I met a woman, one much like myself.
She told me first that I had beautiful hands, and then that some of my drawings were quite honestly beyond her comprehension.
We spend many months on a collaborative endeavor, a form of work I was not quite used to. But working with her placated my anxieties. We became very good friends.
We stopped working so feverishly one summer, and spent a week traveling. It was then that told me she loved me, and I assented to be a fixture in her life.
We worked for the project together another two years.
The nights grew colder, and while I continued to work on my 'impossible' project, she did not do the same. She spoke of 'family' and 'settling down', but I wasn't convinced I could ever go down such a track. It began as only a small crack in our relationship.
I tried numerous times to speak to her of my love for a divine truth - that there's a monumental accomplishment I, - we - could accomplish in our lifetime, something that would let us understand the purpose of our existence, but she wouldn't have it. She complained that I was never home for dinner, or that I never did look her in the eyes when I told her I loved her.
Over many years, I worked on my project alone, and it became apparent that the divide between us was too great.
She left me finally, and the unthinkable happened.
My project was nearing its completion, but I couldn't think any longer.
I couldn't build. I could not grasp the ideas that were so freshly delivered to my consciousness every morning. My project, which I felt was approaching a quite succulent limit, suddenly began to falter. There was no more inspiration. It felt like the truth itself was slipping away as I finished things up.
I ended my work on a bittersweet note.
When I revealed it to the world: the Tessellated Complex,
it was received with glorious praise by architects across the globe.
Critics lauded my work, and offered me an array of opportunities.
But, there was a hole in my heart, and a hole in the complex.
She once had the idea of a small village, in the middle of whatever I was building, a town with christmas-lights and bread delivered fresh to its streets every morning.
I thought it was wild-- idiotic and tectonically immature.
But it was hers, and it was something dear to her.
A memory perhaps.
The government intervened,
having seen my art.
They were immeasurably pleased with it, and took it into their own hands.
They never told me where it was built. They gave me photos to look at,
and I was glad.
But that sense of fulfillment I expected was not present.
That windfall of emotions I had so long awaited
couldn't be found in any of the walls of the photographs.
What I had wanted all along had passed me by,
and taken everything with it.
There were no designs after that one.
I took to the desert in search of a truth --
and I would not return until I found it.
I am the architect.
Of a place that stretches its claws across the great white desert and disperses the flames.
Of a place that rose from the earth and transcends the earth.
But with this monumental work,
something was lost along the way. Something,
and now things will never be the same.
I was born without choice, it seems, as a searcher of truth. Not simple truths,
...or perhaps the simplest of truths.
The truth that is somewhere hidden in our existence.
There is something pure, something absolute, beyond the things that we live through. Something that life can only be a tool for.
I saw it in the geometries our mathematicians had conjured up. I saw it in the fractals of my dream space, and in the glitches in my thoughts.
I knew that I could find fulfillment of this desire for truth through architecture.
I was good with my hands and better with my eyes.
I drafted and I built, and spent much of my life watching as the most complex of patternations were spilled out onto wooden canvases, reams of paper, and scraps of metal.
I wanted the impossible design. I wanted the best, the brightest, and I began to fear that I could not ever attain it.
The fear would always be with me.
But I kept creating the most exquisite wooden sculptures, masonry and steel creatures -- buildings that caught the eyes of everyone around me.
I met a woman, one much like myself.
She told me first that I had beautiful hands, and then that some of my drawings were quite honestly beyond her comprehension.
We spend many months on a collaborative endeavor, a form of work I was not quite used to. But working with her placated my anxieties. We became very good friends.
We stopped working so feverishly one summer, and spent a week traveling. It was then that told me she loved me, and I assented to be a fixture in her life.
We worked for the project together another two years.
The nights grew colder, and while I continued to work on my 'impossible' project, she did not do the same. She spoke of 'family' and 'settling down', but I wasn't convinced I could ever go down such a track. It began as only a small crack in our relationship.
I tried numerous times to speak to her of my love for a divine truth - that there's a monumental accomplishment I, - we - could accomplish in our lifetime, something that would let us understand the purpose of our existence, but she wouldn't have it. She complained that I was never home for dinner, or that I never did look her in the eyes when I told her I loved her.
Over many years, I worked on my project alone, and it became apparent that the divide between us was too great.
She left me finally, and the unthinkable happened.
My project was nearing its completion, but I couldn't think any longer.
I couldn't build. I could not grasp the ideas that were so freshly delivered to my consciousness every morning. My project, which I felt was approaching a quite succulent limit, suddenly began to falter. There was no more inspiration. It felt like the truth itself was slipping away as I finished things up.
I ended my work on a bittersweet note.
When I revealed it to the world: the Tessellated Complex,
it was received with glorious praise by architects across the globe.
Critics lauded my work, and offered me an array of opportunities.
But, there was a hole in my heart, and a hole in the complex.
She once had the idea of a small village, in the middle of whatever I was building, a town with christmas-lights and bread delivered fresh to its streets every morning.
I thought it was wild-- idiotic and tectonically immature.
But it was hers, and it was something dear to her.
A memory perhaps.
The government intervened,
having seen my art.
They were immeasurably pleased with it, and took it into their own hands.
They never told me where it was built. They gave me photos to look at,
and I was glad.
But that sense of fulfillment I expected was not present.
That windfall of emotions I had so long awaited
couldn't be found in any of the walls of the photographs.
What I had wanted all along had passed me by,
and taken everything with it.
There were no designs after that one.
I took to the desert in search of a truth --
and I would not return until I found it.
