Well, as may be obvious, I have never managed to keep this thing populated. So I figured, well, I did a lot of failed writing attempts in my 20’s (Note that was 30 years ago… see blah blah blah) maybe I should just plop some of them up here…
First bit… Something that I titled “Fingers”.
The trees are on fire.
Up ahead, the sky envelops my vision: black and three thousand shades of gray: undulating, breathing. Red and orange flashing and pulsating, each battling to achieve dominance over the other. There is heat, enough to set me on fire, were I really aware. I am not though, my awareness has been stifled by my experience. I need to feel the fire, to become it. I sense that it wants me too, the flame seeks to join all together. I am not ready yet and it is not close enough, though its aura is already everywhere, making my skin too hot to touch. Fire seems all around, like a crowd of strangers that I try to avoid. My mind has become swollen and the sounds of the fire’s creation are just like whispers. Whispering sounds through the trees. In this youth, I feel whispering all around. The sounds are everywhere.
My fingers. Cut upon the bark of a tree. Blood eases so smoothly I want to be tiny and upon my finger where I could play in the slowly undulating wading stream of red, lay upon its shore and nap with my feet gently caressed by the thick and warm liquid. A pleasant cut, like running into yourself on a walk. A reminder of who and what I am. I stop making tracks and stare upwards as I turn about, bringing dizziness upon myself, watching the still white and glowing clouds spin circles around the sun as all of it spins erratically around in my vision. I expand my hands to their largest palms with the fingers assuming a giant circumference as I twirl towards the dirt below. Landing upon my back, the fingers begin to holler alerts at me. More cuts? No, just twists and turns. I smile at myself for I have landed upon my back, there is no need for rising. The sun and clouds still make my pleasure, twirling about my head. I shall dream again. Not the dreams of the unsatisfied of things that never will be but the dreams of the occasionally trapped, that this moment will go on forever, protected by walls of fire, mother and uncle always left behind me, though never sure about the occurrence of that heavenly love, the faceless girl who lives on the edges of my dreams, I never having the surety of knowing if she should visit or not. Fearing to spy upon her face, that might draw her closer obstruct my orbit around the nothingness of all creation. Cloud my senses with joy and block out the rest. Is it for me? I fear to discover. Fear also of the responsibility, involving with life requires acknowledgment, have I the time for that? From whence in my little reality could I steal that time away to donate it to the world? So she remains, more and less real than the family who has always surrounded me with their shadows.
When had the world ended? Why had it taken so long? I have been always waiting, making plans so grand for worldless travels. The glory of spending eternity within the lands of my memories. None of this life has been remarkable or enjoyable until it is a moment remembered. In the past tense, all events are quite canny and pleasurable, so much so that for years I have fought the creation of new memories, out of fear for dimming the ones that I already fill my every moment with. The end of the world brings with it an ensconcing of my life into the dream world of my past, never again to have to suffer through a present moment or tremble at the thought of future ones. To swallow all of my living and fill myself up with it until I want to explode, to taste every taste, over and over, the sweet ones taste more so, with greater attention to the details that I may have missed while while anxiously, yet obliviously, stumbling through the original moment, the sour ones, gain in humor with the levity that I can muster up for events that are done with and in which the outcome is no longer a mystery.
The present calls to me again, movement ahead. I roll my eyes to face them out of myself now and back to the world. The trees still burn, the shiny clouds have been defeated and the sun has defected to the other side, glowing ominously in the midst of red and gray storm clouds. The heat washes over me and my eyes fill with sweat, soaking up my forehead, I see dark forms hanging from the trees ahead, their swing-set ride is coming to an end, motion barely perceptible. They are the lucky few, death came and brought them to their memory land, were they to have memories. Yet I am still living. Why will my end not come as theirs has for them? I would cause it myself were it not for the knowledge that my only memory would be the knowledge of that final event. They could be anywhere in their lives now, ignorant and uncaring that their bodies hang from trees, limbs tied tightly, presentation only for the ones whose turns have not yet arrived, scarecrows for your past. In the fields all around me are undeserving corpses, sent back to rehash their worthless thoughtless existences while god prevents me from achieving the same state, until he can pummel me with enough events so that I lose the clarity of my past that is my lifeblood. I shall continue to resist though, I have died already to me. I recognize his plan, I have already seen through his agents. Mother and Uncle. Family. Friends. Not creatures in their own right, parasites to sap my strength, batter down the memories that I should contain and fill me with regurgitation of the evil shallow tripe that spews forth from their mouths. Avoided at all costs, now that I know their purpose. They have become faceless, words from their mouths hold as much gravity with me as flatulence from their buttocks. See, hear and speak no evil, no good. Nothing. I bide my time though. Harboring my world away from this world, relocating my mind before its ordained time, for its time has rightfully come and gone long ago. It all stretches out ahead of me, all of the moments that I have collected, the people, the sensations, the ideas. Stretching as far as the mind can see.
Dark. That is all that I can think of. There is nothing else here, nothing else to be known. No. I feel the need to reach out, to extend my invisible hand into the heavy air that surrounds me. Soft. Irregular. There is something ahead of me. It begins to move as my hand explores the mushy surface and the bumps. It is the face of my uncle. A form that I have never touched yet, it floats in front of me, jaw opening and closing, not threatening, mechanical. A pointless Christmas nutcracker, and as easily discarded as one. The others, the ones outside yourself, have no real validity in your life. The voices in my head are real, the people that i see could be television, dreams or just hallucinations
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