Untitled Story

February 12th, 2013

Visions of the ocean. Smell of burnt cinnamon. Prog rock echoing in my ears. You’re far away, you’re not with me.

Sometimes I dream of empty cinemas and large bodies of water, and a lonely cliff above an endless void. Cheap French wine, cotton stuffing in my limbs. Light and easy, gently dismissive. It’s not like anything else. This feeling.

The truth is, we all matter: you, me, her. Our choices carve the thin line that separates fear from devotion, faith from abuse, loyalty from fixation. You shoot a ray of light at the stars, it slides off the edge of your soul in a myriad of soap bubbles and dust particles. I intercept. I am still the boy standing in front of the big tree in my old neighborhood, playing with my rusty pocket knife.

You should not talk to strangers, you should believe in God, you should buckle up. It’s your responsibility, not mine. The next round is on me. He was such a great kid. A faraway planet is looking at you through a haze of nonexistence, its population running in fear, colliding with your dust particles, smelling the danger, drowning in the ocean. A small black figure near the edge of the biggest continent is immobile, resigned. It lifts its head and takes a long look at the supernova.

You’re supposed to, you have to, you must, we expect you to—obey, in so many words. The real danger is your own thoughts, your own actions, your own frailty. The fact that you really matter distorts your own consciousness to the point of nonexistence. You’re standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the void. I watch silent movies, all alone, enveloped in fear and anxiety. I see waves of water, hissing, and a flock of seagulls mixed with dust, bathed in late autumn sunlight. So pathetic. So heartwarming. So real.

It’s amazing how someone so incredibly hideous can be this beautiful. You know who you really are, you look in the mirror every day. You look at me and you see the same reflection, distorted and ghastly, unable to cope with the interference. Your world suddenly becomes unstable, and I can do nothing about it, falling through, trying to grasp the ultimate meaning of everything that ever happens. Pure thought, unrestrained, transparent in its unimaginable hopelessness. I am not really who you think I am. I am standing on the verge of myself, looking down into the void. You are falling through the membrane, soap bubbles dancing around your pale body. I am the only one who can really see you.

Fast forward to the beginning of our existence. Everything is there, within your reach. I hold out a hand and pat you on the back. You sigh equivocally. Something is not quite right and we both know it.

Suddenly, I realize that you are nothing but a separate entity. My eyes close and open again. I am no longer dreaming. I am right here, in front of the rest of the universe, emitting heat, reflecting and absorbing light, succumbing to the pressure of the atmosphere that covers our small planet. Resigned and a little sad, I look up at the supernova.

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  • Noname

    Your stories are too beautiful to be real. It feels like you trying to avoid the matter of things or just idealize it. Yet I like it..

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