The assignment was to write a parody. I chose to mimic the sentence structure of Grisha, a short story by Anton Chekhov.
The link for that story is here: http://www.online-literature.com/anton_chekhov/1157/
My version is as follows:
History, born moments ago, is both creating and transcending the limitations of human perception. It is traveling through time, perpetually, brought into existence as you read my words. It reveals itself in various forms, and is oftentimes misunderstood- especially when it is thought to take place on a mappable trajectory.
The entire scope of its mysterious endurance is something that has compelled and completely baffled the entire human species for years.
Hitherto it has been thought that History exists in a three-dimensional world where the laws of physics govern all phenomenal experience; it is no wonder the people who created History have never truly known what it is. If one considered the idea that History is not a single entity but is a multitude of experiences, one would certainly gain insight into the relationship between causality and volition; and perhaps would even be curious enough to want to find out what lies behind the veil of misconceptions and thoughts from sense impressions, a universal state of mind considered to be eternally divine. In a realm beyond your experience of the world you see now, there is another plane of existence that is the universe itself. History is like time, and time is like death, only death is inevitable and time is inconceivable. From the world of your mind the door of perceptions leads to a great expanse where wordly thoughts and desirous admonitions are irrelevant. As History says, “the swinging pendulum of a clock has no temporal meaning if no one is there to observe it.” From the moment you read this, you are becoming aware of your ability to access a hinge which enables you to attain awareness of the world for which you have been searching. Here, there is no one to dictate which version of History you are taught. Beyond this new world there is still another, and another after that, and so on until infinity– an extremely mystifying concept! Time and space are incomprehensible: some say they are distinct, that the reasons for this separation are unknown. There is another theory, spacetime, that combines space and time into a single continuum. By combinining the three dimensions of space with the one dimension of time, events in our universe can be articulated in theories for both supergalactic and subatomic levels. Where does the disillusionment occur? History has more than once been said to repeat itself, yet has also never ceased to exist.
In this new world, where History is seen as a multitude of experiences, one realizes that he or she is part of History as well. But what is stranger and more absurd than anything are the implications of such a realization. History is a concept, yet it existed before the words were invented to describe it. Impenetrable are its depths, its essence unconfined by the limitations of symbols and text.
All at once History unfolds . . . A coalescing force of consciousness, reflected on and actualized through written documentation. Of course, this being so, History can never be captured in its entirety. What we think we know about it is constantly changing and evolving as we continue to learn more about it and create new words to characterize its progress. History is the past, the present and the future.
Because you were taught to remove yourself from History and consider it to be a permanent state of the world as it once was, you never realized that you are actually living in the same, unceasing moment in which History has so far developed.
“Wake up!” cried the narrator, seizing your attention with portentous dialect. “Your illusioned and misguided way of thinking separates your existence from that of the rest of the universe. This habit is a defect in your human way of thinking, and hinders you from understanding the essence of Reality.”
Here there is a moment of intellection, but one must remember that intellection alone never brought one to the Original source.
“Why do you not know yourself?” cried the words on the page, referring to themselves as if they possessed a certain degree of self-knowledge.
Now History can be explicated if we examine its components, but first we must begin by deconstructing your conception of who you are.
“Consider the mind that thinks. What is it?” you hear suddenly, existential duality exemplified as the thinking subject becomes the object of thought.
To your utter bewilderment, the words on the page seem to be engaging an untapped potential you were previously unaware of. The formerly restricting conventions of society, the rules, laws and dogmas you had been confined by are all looked at afresh, your new perspective enabling you to question the world you had been socialized into. You begin to laugh.
“Come along! Come along!” the voice of wisdom calls to those who are ready to heed its intricacies, subtly yet forcefully demanding your attention.
“Come along where?” you ask.
“Come along, follow as your own life becomes a journey of self-discovery and your very being is transformed into a self-perpetuating phenomenon that intensely stimulates its own drive for knowledge.”
You want to condemn anyone who assumes an air of authority over the reader, but an unreliable narrator cannot be fully trusted in the first place.
After pondering this seemingly self-deprecating admission of the narrator who has, until now, been pretentious and somewhat demeaning, you begin to question the intentions of the author. He has carefully chosen words from the vocabulary he has attained and maintains ownership of, selected theories he has come across and arranged them in a provocative way. He has chosen to do so for his own reasons, many of which he is not revealing. History, as the narrator has attempted to show you, is changing with every word you read, and ultimately must be realized by you alone. No doctrine or teaching will show you the way.
“Why is this?” you wonder, getting annoyed with yourself.
The narrator is forcing you to philosophize, an activity many are uncomfortable partaking in, especially when it feels contrived.
“Continue, if you must,” you drone.
“Please, please, please!” cried the narrator. “Be patient!”
As knowledge is reflected upon you will learn how to recognize causes, and will finally be able to accept your ignorance. The two concepts of space and time that we have come to define as being united in the fourth dimension will no longer seem to be mere abstract expressions, but will be seen as what they truly are, which is the answer to the riddle of the sphinx.
You try to understand how you may convey this answer to the people around you but become confused as it dawns on you: no one has ever been able to solve the riddle of the sphinx. This acceptance engenders a deep hunger for transcendent knowledge, you longingly hope to one day articulate the mysteries of human existence.
“Cut me some slack!” the narrator begs.
For he is only trying to demonstrate in a human parody that the unsolved and age old questions of mankind have to do with its misconception of the word History.
All of your attempts to understand Nature have so far been fragmentary, you have the top physicists in your world trying to come up with the ultimate String theory, hoping to create a formula that explains everything in the entire universe. As the narrator asks you to reflect on this statement, you begin to realize that you do not know why you live and you die . . .
In this very moment, you cannot truly appreciate the text before you. The message seems phony, manufactured and not at all what you were expecting. The theories seem to be randomly selected from incongruent schools of thought, the thesis seems to be a muddled collection of aphorisms. It is unclear what the overall point of the story was.
“You are foolish,” says the narrator, making you uncomfortable. Once again the text is speaking to you as if it is aware of its intentions and you begin to question whether or not you missed the hidden hermetic encoded revelation.
“Judgement!” cried the narrator, “is subjective!”
“You must have thought I was stupid,” you said.
And the reader, shocked at the brash and overbearing attempt at a narrative, decided that the author must be an artist searching for a medium.