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2 years ago
July 7, 2009
Chapter Four.
Walking to class today, I saw a puddle on the floor. A patch of water, no larger than a textbook. And I started to cry. I don’t understand it. It just happened, I guess I just couldn’t hold it back any longer. That water, the giver of life, precious in so many parts of the world, so sort after that people kill for it, just lying there. I stared at it, just stood there and stared at it, it stood deadly still, defying the world with it’s tranquility. In the modern world, everything moves, everything goes somewhere and if you don’t, you are left behind. And here is a puddle, something that people just ignore, defying the system. The water in it could be from anywhere, from the atlantic, for the pacific, from Canada or New Zealand, and it’s so precious, because it gives us life. Without it we are nothing, without it just ashes and dust. Yet for some reason, because it’s on the floor it means nothing to us. It’s contaminated, lost to the world. Someone stepped in the puddle. I only just realized but it must have happened a while ago as the spot has dried up, leaving no trace of it’s former glory. The water has moved on, and I guess that proves my point. Nothing is stable, nothing is secure. Even water, in all its beauty, is still just oxygen and hydrogen and it too must move on.
So I moved on, to my next class. Moving on in life.
2 years ago
July 7, 2009
Chapter three
Sitting outside, looking over a valley at a mountain range at night. The rain on the tin roof just above your head, the beating of your heart in your chest, everything seems connected. Lightning lighting up the mountains in the distance, lighting up the corners of your mind. Each fork allowing you a glimpse at another world. Somewhere you have never been. And probably never will go. Somewhere where, for you, things could be better. Things could always be better. The smoke billowing up into the roof that covers you head from the torrents of rain that surround you. The rain pouring, splashing, gurgling along the path in front and in that rain you see yourself, carried away by the ever moving flow, the cycle, the never ending tediousity of the world. To escape. To be free, just for a moment, just for a second to feel what it is like to be in a world without boundaries, without limitations. Oh! What you would give. Yet, you look into the distance and think, over there, over there is a better world, a world where there is freedom, a world without boundaries. Each moment you are being carried away. Freed, as you might say, from the boundaries that keep you trapped. You realise that it is just another mechanism, another boundary, but that doesn’t matter right now. Now, in this moment all that matters is that it is not the usual boundary. It is not the same. Right now, you understand it all. You can see so clearly, yet all that has happened is another filter. Memories, flooding through your mind. Tears, streaming from your eyes. A cough, and now everything is cacophony of noise. A beetle chirps, whines, moans at the night, a twig breaks and you think you are done for. The screaming in your head has started and it won’t stop; now you scream. A bellow, a primitive groan against it all. A dog howling at the moon. That is the closest analogy you can think of. You shirt stained with sweat, the floor in front of your stinking of vomit and you stomach yearning for food. You body aches, groans, whimpers against what you have put it through. You push off your seat, attempting to get up. The ground is not where it was. Confused you stumble forward, grasping blindly at anything and something comes rushing to meet you, it’s warm and sticky embrace cuddling you in its arms. The floor. Concrete yet soft, frosty yet warm, sticky, yes sticky, vomit is always sticking. Reality has become an illusion. The world is one, merging together into one big lump, a dirty clod. All in one and one in all. You are I and I you. That is how I know this.
2 years ago
July 3, 2009
Chapter two
Death covers all. Life consumes all. Birth provides all. This is not profound; it is simple yet nothing is simple anymore. Humans urge to analyse. What was he thinking, saying, doing? All mankind asks the same questions and each question is unanswerable. This is what keeps them going. Without these questions they are but hairless apes. Confusion grips a hollowed soul. As a rotten bench crackling on a fire, all its’ use forgotten. A man is nothing when lost amid his own thoughts but through that, he is everything. A life without thinking, analysing, wondering, is one that would destroy any man, slowly creeping under his skin and hollowing out his very nature from within him until he wandered the world, a man removed of his manhood.
The dew on the grass had been drawn into perfectly symmetrical patterns by the frigid breeze and the many wanderings of humankind over its moistened surface. The street, deserted but for a few boys trying to play football at the far end, had taken up an air of foreboding as if each lamppost dared the inhabitants of the houses to come out and face the chilling wind. I looked out from my window. How is it, I thought, that when you ask a teenager to get up for school you may as well be talking to a wall but when you ask them to play a sport they’re up like a rocket? The mysteries of human existence still confound me. I continued to look out the window upon the deserted street and wondered if it would be worth going out to collect the newspaper. I could see it, lying there at the end of my driveway, a soggy messy teasing, tantalising me to venture forth and collect it. I decided to at least journey downstairs and grab some breakfast. The bloodstains of last night having been covered up I finally managed to get the toaster to actually toast my pop-tart before I had to head out to school. I bit into my toasted treat and immediately collapsed in pleasure. The chocolaty liquid twisted around my taste buds and the crunchy underbelly had just the right consistency. It was beautiful. One moment of pure ecstasy is what is needed to start off a day. One pop-tart.
School buses must have an in-built system that can see whether you are at the bus-stop already or not. If you’re there, the bus driver makes sure he leaves you out in icy temperatures for at least twenty minutes before he picks you up. If you’re not there, they speed past so you have to sprint to catch up with the bus and get on. Those are always the days that you forget your bus pass.
The bus ride to school can be my favourite part of the day, or it can be the worst. I spend most of the time looking out of the window, just thinking. Some days I think about school and all the work that I didn’t do the night before and other days I just think in general. Many times I think about how many people there are in the world, each with their own thoughts and dreams and each as confused as I. It astounds me. I shall never understand how there can be some many different people, so many thoughts and so many disagreements, yet we all seem to make it so simple. We focus on ourselves, on what we’re going to do today, on who we’ll talk to today. Maybe that’s the only way we can cope with it. We can’t handle the thought of all of the other people in the world, because just our own lives confuse us. Imagine trying to deal with all of it. Other days on the bus I think about colours. Those are the good days.
2 years ago
July 3, 2009
Note.
Chapter One is up for editing… working on it now in fact… thanks my one follower!
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