First there was, and then there wasn’t

“First there was, and then there wasn’t”

This is how an old Iranian folk tale begins. It always struck me as a very simple way to convey a not so simple truth. A rather  robust and finite truth. 

I’m not even sure it is a real tale. Perhaps it is just a tale within a tale, but -the story goes-  the author began to write it in order to ensure that these old traditional tales would not be forgotten, and was himself killed before he was able to finish.  The last story, the one where the bird that had travelled the world in search of the most beautiful tale was to find it,  the one the author  sacrificed so much for to ensure would be put to paper,  his own time with his own children unaware he would never see those children  again,  would as a consequence remain unwritten, and left to be finished by our imagination.

Is an unfinished  story still a story?

Is an unfinished tale any less of a tale?

Is a dream that starts with thunder and lightning but does not end any less of a dream?

Is it enough that it was dreamed, sometime, somewhere.
Is it enough that it can still be dreamed at night when the clouds tuck us in?

First there was and then there wasn’t…. some times there is little else left to say.