He wrote stories. He wrote every day, every night. He wrote about people who didn’t write their own, about people no one had written about. Unwritten tales screaming to be told.

Everybody should have their story written, he thought. It’s just not right for all these stories not to be told.

It became an obsession. So many untold stories, so much to write about. He wanted to write about them all. So many lives fading into history, never written down. He wrote and he wrote, but he was nothing but a mere mortal. He lacked time.

He swore an oath. An oath to new gods and old, an oath to Mother Nature, to the universe itself. He swore an oath to Reason.

“If you only give me time, I will write a story about everyone who do not write about themselves. Every single one of them, and no one else. Ever. I swear upon my very being, I swear upon the stories I write. I swear upon existence.”

To his great surprise, Reason answered. Deep in his mind, he could hear her voice, like he had heard it so many times before. Suddenly it all made sense.

“You will be given time,” she said. “All the time you need. If you succeed you will live forever. If you fail, I will take it all back.”

He agreed in his silent mind, knowing she could hear him. The pact was sealed. Now all he had to do was write. So he wrote. He wrote about every man, every woman destined to be lost in time without him. He wrote about every child, ever elder, every rich man and beggar, every soldier, every cook. He wrote and he wrote until one day he had written about them all, each and every one of them. They all had their stories told.

Everyone but one. Himself.

Neither he or anyone else had told his story, so his story had to be told. He was the last stone, the final touch to his tremendous work. He sat down, started writing. As the words were put down on paper, his memories began to fade. His childhood disappeared as he tried to write the words, his youth, his life. His body felt numb, his mind distant. Soon he didn’t feel anything at all. He remembered nothing. There was nothing to write. Nothing to tell. His pen fell through his transparent fingers. He tried to pick it up, but his hand went through it, through the sheet, through the table.

He seized to exist forever, in all past and all future. None of his stories had ever been told.

Text, voice and illustrations are my own, all rights reserved. Please share. This story is inspired by Russel's paradox