The Masterpiece

Edward Newton

It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.

The voice of Edward Newton rings out across an empty night’s sky. He’s stood beneath the stars, looking up at the infinite pitch black above.

“People are so callously blinded by their desire to understand the infinite universe in which we live. They demand answers to questions they have only given rights to ask. Their meaningless existence is woven into the fabric of time and space, a mere microscopic thread in a much larger design. They have eyes, but they are blinded by hubris.”

He folds his arms.

“So, Riddle me this, Mr. Neptune; what has an eye but cannot see?

“In this sour world, the blind lead the blindThe darkness rules the light. There’s an empty void of space between every word, every moment, every lie. You think you know what you see. You think you know who you are, or where you’re going, but none of you truly know anything. Where you’ve been and where you’ll go, they aren’t directions on a map, they are forged from the cosmos, from sources we do not control. They are paths yet travelled, in various ways, all of which play out in infinite ways across infinite universes.”

With a pause, Edward looks back up at the sky.

“I ask; what has an eye but cannot see?

He smiles.

A needle.

Looking back at the camera, his smile turns into a grimace.

“The universe has long thread its sliver of yarn through you and weaved you willingly through the fabric of its own creation. You’re but responsible for a strand in an endless stream of lies, deception and deceit. If you refuse to be shaped into the pattern designed, you are manipulated, spun and thrust in without forethought or question. You are but a tool, a simple artistic measure, and you will do what is expected of you. You may have eyes, Mr. Neptune, but you simply cannot see. You have been blinded by the greater minds that force you into their systematic creation of a better world; a world they will use you to create, and then discard you from once your task is complete.”

“You’ve been pulled from pillar to post, bent and shaped, entwinned enigmatically without want or desire into a war you did not choose. Your mind hasn’t been your own, and your soul belongs to the design put into place by beings who dare not show you their faces. You are a needle. You weave, you construct, but you do so only at the hand of something greater, something grander than yourself.”

He takes a deep breath, his smile returning.

“Just like the Zetas, I am the hand that guides needles like you. I am the curator, the creator, I am the five fingers of an entire existence. Injustice – a pattern weaved from the fabric into my creation; using needles such as Hysteria and No Face. On Monday, you are but another needle, ready to be thrust into your duty of creating the artistic canvas of wool that is yet another Edward Newton victory.”

Open your eye, Mr. Neptune. Open your eye and let me begin.

We have a masterpiece to create.

The World Champion sits down, taking in the scene above, as our scene fades to black.