"Oh, writing is so boring! Everybody knows that, inside the dark matter" Astra said yesterday, in front of her glass of mango juice, a drink she adores. "Words are not that effective any more, and nobody is to blame because of that, really. Don't take that personally." I had tried to talk her about my favorite writers, but I gave up. I decided not to argue about that, and simply sat in front of her with curiosity. The golden circle of the juice was mirrored in her starry eyes, which were way more reflective than ours.
"Just tell me what is effective, among the dark matter people" I simply said; "You studied me for several days by now; I guess I deserve to know something more about you, since I'm hosting you during this quarantine."
"Oh well... The Monochrome Festival is definitely one of the best artistic moments for us. It works like that: each person chooses one single color, according to their mood or inspiration, and leaves a huge streak of paint around a planet, by releasing it from a little star ship. We have many star ships, but they're mostly deployed during the Festival."
I smirked: "Oh, come on... We did many similar things here in the special boring matter, you know that? We are not as boring as you think."
"Wait, let me finish! After releasing the huge streak of color, each artist passes through someone else's streak, so that all the colors merge and a ravishing psychedelic chaos is created around the atmosphere. Every time the colors look different, and they merge with the dark matter in order to fill the space with thousands of shades. We see unpredictable shapes, sometimes, and strange meanings, and even animals or faces looking at us from the depths of the dark sea. Someone likes thinking they're prophecies."
"Prophecies! Oh come on, Astra. You clearly did not attend any fireworks show so far. That may be effective, but art is not just about the 'wow' effect. There is much more to be told."
She looked coming back to earth after her long journey through her memories. "Oh, for real? I am curious, try me. Anything meaningful left to say by using words?"
I sighed. How long could I talk about literature with an opinionated little girl from another world? "Different ages have different things to say. The most brilliant authors are just... filters to the spirit of their age. They collect all the important stuff and they just condensate everything in phrases. And do you think that's not a great deal? Not everything is just colors. Words are still something."
She stayed quiet for a while, and I started thinking I had offended her. It took her some minutes to answer, after chewing her lower lip - something she was used to do while brooding: "We used to think the same way, once. Then we noticed that words were growing ineffective. We needed something more, unifying many expressions, letting them merge: colors, moving pictures, stories. We found a way to let people become the expression itself."
"For real?" I asked with skepticism. "And that is...?"
"That is: video games!" Her thin eyebrows rose, an those last words of hers allowed her to run back to the garden, where she hoped to spend most of the quarantine.
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from Short Stories
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