paradoxical
02-28-2012, 03:51 PM
This story is a bit depressing, I guess. I wanted to capture the thoughts and observations of someone who is on the outskirts of society and usually ignored (and in this case, more then a little crazy).
I think some of it is good, yet it seems a little incomplete. Would love to hear your thoughts and criticism...
I consider places that have been forgotten, burned to ash long ago or taken by the sea. I think of those who are buried in the ruins of Pompeii, in ships that lie wrecked on the bottom of the Aegean Sea. The wind blows over the water and not even the ghosts of men and women remain; their hunger and effort now over. What are we to make of the peace given to us by death? Is it wrong to envy the dead? Those who have passed on and are now free of pain?
I fear the future world that is already bleeding into the present and causing things to appear the way they do. I've always felt this peculiar aversion to modern life, even as a child. The past is the only thing that comforts me—my doctor tells me I am obsessed with the subject. You have something called schizoaffective disorder, he says. But I understand the cold logic of modern psychiatry and the men who prescribe these medications.
My knowledge comes to me from a timeless place beyond the physical universe that is the source of all the symbols and thought forms that make up our world. If I die now, I will reincarnate again in the proper place in time. I know this. If you don’t take your medication, I’m sending you back to the hospital, he tells me. Again, the modern world—a sterile world of total control and if I’m not careful, they will destroy my link to the past.
* * *
I’m on the train heading south, watching the mist blow in from the hills across the river; the sky is overcast and dark—kind of fascinating, really. I like the way it’s so bleak and depressing. The train turns toward downtown and I can see the bridge in the distance—the one I’m going to use. And I’m not just going over the railing either, where pedestrians can cross. I plan on climbing all the way to the top of the steel arch to jump.
I get off downtown and walk to the bus stop. I start asking for change and soon I have enough money for a half-pint of vodka. Someone gives me their bus transfer so I get on the 12 bus and find a seat in the back. More people get on, some carrying bags from expensive shops, but no one looks happy. They all seem sad and lost. I can see the pain in other people’s eyes; I’ve learned how to read people really well, it helps you survive out here.
Soon, I’m thinking of ancient Greece and other places, repeating certain names in my mind. Persia. The Black Sea. Damascus. I notice that people are looking at me and realize that I’ve been talking out loud. These looks I get from people. I can tell they feel sorry for me but I’ve already found my way back to the past and no one should feel bad for me. Unlike everyone else on this planet, my time is coming. I will be free. I feel sorry for everyone else.
I think some of it is good, yet it seems a little incomplete. Would love to hear your thoughts and criticism...
I consider places that have been forgotten, burned to ash long ago or taken by the sea. I think of those who are buried in the ruins of Pompeii, in ships that lie wrecked on the bottom of the Aegean Sea. The wind blows over the water and not even the ghosts of men and women remain; their hunger and effort now over. What are we to make of the peace given to us by death? Is it wrong to envy the dead? Those who have passed on and are now free of pain?
I fear the future world that is already bleeding into the present and causing things to appear the way they do. I've always felt this peculiar aversion to modern life, even as a child. The past is the only thing that comforts me—my doctor tells me I am obsessed with the subject. You have something called schizoaffective disorder, he says. But I understand the cold logic of modern psychiatry and the men who prescribe these medications.
My knowledge comes to me from a timeless place beyond the physical universe that is the source of all the symbols and thought forms that make up our world. If I die now, I will reincarnate again in the proper place in time. I know this. If you don’t take your medication, I’m sending you back to the hospital, he tells me. Again, the modern world—a sterile world of total control and if I’m not careful, they will destroy my link to the past.
* * *
I’m on the train heading south, watching the mist blow in from the hills across the river; the sky is overcast and dark—kind of fascinating, really. I like the way it’s so bleak and depressing. The train turns toward downtown and I can see the bridge in the distance—the one I’m going to use. And I’m not just going over the railing either, where pedestrians can cross. I plan on climbing all the way to the top of the steel arch to jump.
I get off downtown and walk to the bus stop. I start asking for change and soon I have enough money for a half-pint of vodka. Someone gives me their bus transfer so I get on the 12 bus and find a seat in the back. More people get on, some carrying bags from expensive shops, but no one looks happy. They all seem sad and lost. I can see the pain in other people’s eyes; I’ve learned how to read people really well, it helps you survive out here.
Soon, I’m thinking of ancient Greece and other places, repeating certain names in my mind. Persia. The Black Sea. Damascus. I notice that people are looking at me and realize that I’ve been talking out loud. These looks I get from people. I can tell they feel sorry for me but I’ve already found my way back to the past and no one should feel bad for me. Unlike everyone else on this planet, my time is coming. I will be free. I feel sorry for everyone else.