R1 of RR Debate Tourney: USM vs MiG

Excerpted from the same manuscript, from a resident patient, discovered within his room. I had burrowed myself near the chasm of the sea, where the waters, when parting, often embrace only sparingly, near the coastline, where I could slightly emerge, above the vise and breath of the sea, somewhat visible. I had chosen such a place for I knew he was entitled to the sea, and it was his elm by which experiences afford composure and remembrance—and by whim. It was an indeed an odd experiment—and one apparently unfeasible. Nevertheless, I was resolute: he was, so to speak, all the more to flee, fugitive in this world, the confines of this world, and now life would reach and mirror his state. And so, I waited, and that eerie Pacific darkness settled, grasping and ensnaring that small, but poignant coast in its throes and solemnity. And it would come incessantly, casting its nets. I admit that I am not a man easily guided to action, nor one with the endurance to confront it, nor one to assume thought. Meditation is not what I am suited to, and indeed, the thought operates, within this little mind, only fleetingly now. It was yet piqued, moved: I could not help but refrain from understanding the magical aura around these series of events, and move into the realm of speculation. And that brush of the sea coiled at me from the behind as I cowered, near the rough ledges, as the rub, and the sweeping strike a jagged breeze, followed by the rhythmic undulation of waves. For some odd quaint reason—as the hour passed by, certainly, it appeared the sea mellowed, ceasing its surge, and with it, the man attendant, seemed to enter a sort of reverie. 'It would appear that he could very well view it—the welter being obscured, the trees only blurred by the limits of perception, and the rush and crease of the sea very well only a major, homogenous face; and yet, there was such detail, of perception there, streaming: there appeared to be some murkiness settling in, wrapping it around, other times somewhat light, nature in tandem near that great berth. It was perhaps odd—and indeed, embarrassing, to realize the great discrepancy between a man deprived a man fully functional in envisioning the world. Of course, I dismissed this as simply a mark of great and vigorous imagination, but was arrested by the sheer thought of inertia: he was not moved, neither by human community, nor invigorated except by the fringes of that world—which I doubt was a sheer reflection of some formidable mind. The world was there, cast by actuality, and shaped into the jagged coast and across the great marine landscape; it took only a limpid, translucent eye to reflect it in the instrument behind it. And then there was the question as to how a perception like his could register such a scene... 'It was many a good days here that I pondered, attempting to reconstruct the entire scene in my head, racking to understand the significance of that little microcosm. For years—and between the rush, the waking and renewing, I first isolated each particular, whether in the moment of frenzy or motion, and attempted to ascribe significance to them, remembering to capture, among the unfettered belt, or the sloping promontories, the incarnates of life there, across the dimly-lit, hazy, seas, stratified, of mist, darkness, and clarity. It appeared all the more frustrating—in attempting to explore each significance one can ascribe to when there was a multitude of meaning, both upon the personal level, and on cultural norms to each—the sea in its liberating throes for the home-bound sailor, the surrounding fauna with its folklore, and so forth. With all this great wealth of symbolic meaning to subscribe to, I found it much easier to consider it in the whole: beauty here was perceived un-distilled, and I doubt that an eye like his, with a whole panorama before him, could ignore but the widest and wholesome frame. 'I myself conducted multiple walks around the area; one day, I happened to come across a small vantage point (when prowling along the lines), where I happened to overlook the same girth around the sea, with that little promontory, apparently obscured by the mist that often settle there, immuring it—and noticed, in a detail that proved somewhat interesting, a small crease in the bank which I had not noticed. It was uniform in color, though small enough to constitute a minor ripple in the waves, with a noticeable dent in the underlying bank that I had not noticed. It appeared that I had presumed that he, by some unknown means—perhaps by imagination or so forth, had covered well the trek—wrongly, and yet, when I looked at his replication, I noticed nothing except for a small, almost indiscernible white spot there; it was contorted, nonetheless, but shaped and non-pervasive, refracted across the gentle, undulating waves. It was then I remembered those words, which I neglected-- “My destination....My destination”....' Night had snared her nets and now a sudden, milky and categorical blueness tinted the entire landscape, the tents nearby, the base of the promontory, and now, having briefly been encapsulated in thought, I arose and whispered the name “Nate”; I was responded with a slight sweep and gawk of a far-away sea-gull, and the sudden thrashing of the waters that culminated in a sudden outburst that quickly drew my attention to both the suddenly brash coastline—and the entire, jutting promontory. There was a certain whiteness, from here to there, across that serene water, which I had gazed, in both the canvas, the easel, and now in person: it was such a fleeting thought, with only the dim light, a bastion which penetrated this embryo, to wonder a man with neither absolute governing existence—life or death within him, and for a moment, I remembered him. At such a thought, nature quelled, with only a sweep and a stir, I beheld a slight rift where two ripples arose, one leading curiously to a most arable area, the other to the coastline. I again beheld a sound—a softer one at that from the sky, and nevertheless stood there. 'He said there was life and death across this road, and of course, I do not believe him...And yet, he was suspended, a fellow without any restraint now, but no ulterior motive. I do remember that I had said that he banished his faculties, for this life was nearing an involuntary end, and he wished to entitle such creative power to....perhaps the next. All those figures—the birds, the little children, were clearly metaphors of himself, of his now pathetic life, but I did not know what to make of what appeared to be representation of his creative faculties—life, freedom, and so forth, in the framework of a journey. Perhaps---' It was then, as the waters surged forward, casting ripples across the screen, I witnessed the sea once more, in its all its majesty: the soft wind brushing against one's back, the little gawks of sea-gulls across the sky, the migrating flocks, that I suddenly thought of them as emblematic of the area—so recurring as if to become mere heralds: one for the wooded areas, the others to near the set of rocks and little pebble-belt in the sea, and one across the face of the sea. It was then I suddenly, and in remembrance of those two, beheld, in the advancing darkness, an unmistakeably white personage on the promontory—a shrouded, human figure. It stood and then faltered into the darkness and distance, borne away and soon gone by a compliant sea. [Author/Debater's comment: Thank you for allowing the story be completed, Pro. :-)I apologize if some of the mysterious notions were not explained; I intended to let it end on a mystery, though I hope readers will be able to discern Nate's fate as hinted here (or that of the narrator) and the resolution of the mysteries in the other rounds.I also ask voters to read carefully and to decide objectively. And without further ado---]