GMC
08-18-2013, 05:34 AM
Part 1
We are living in a time of rapid technological advancement. We are living in a time of political revelation and disillusionment. We are living in a time of progress, a time of revolution, and we are living in such a way that we might not allow ourselves to live much longer. In other words, absolutely nothing has changed.
It feels as though plenty has changed for me. I am alive right now for one thing. That's new. I am 30 years old. That's new too. At least that is how long I have been alive up to this point. It is harder to enumerate my age if I include how long I have been dead, so I will not try to do that. I will not bother explaining what exactly that means right now either. It is wise to avoid complicated explanations I think, a lot simpler and just as useful. Believe me! I have had a lot of time to find these sorts of things out, a lot more than 30 years.
It has been that long exactly since the day I was born. I would call it my birthday, but there are connotations there. This isn't a day worthy of a cake. For one, I have just awoken in a hospital bed. The walls are off-white, and my sheets are off-whiter, probably because my body has been sweating... and ****ting and pissing. Though, I think someone has been taking care of the last two. I will apologize to the nurse when he stops by. A body in a bed is a wretched useless thing to keep alive, to propagate the ****ting and the pissing. Lucky for me that they did, though. I am pissing right now I think. It is hard to tell with all these damned tubes. Yes, I must apologize to that nurse...
He will not be in for a while though, I suspect. It is quite dark. The only light in the room is from the blinds, allowing strips of blue moonlight, like long flat worms on the wall. Long flat flatworms they extracted from my **** and stretched out onto the wall like trophies of unhealth above my lifeless but living body.
I really should not call it my body. It is new to me, and news to me. This is another good reason I will not be celebrating my birthday tonight: the body has not yet agreed to my possession. These eyes flick open and closed at my will, but their goals are still unaided by the bend of this neck.
A few weeks must be spent breaking in the corpse, a task to be accomplished between daylight. I have done it before this way. In the meantime and the daytime I will practice my sleep and dreams, which are pleasures I have not enjoyed in the living equivalent of many years. I will stay a seeming coma patient for now.
I will not make my peace with the nurse then, in case the hospital contacts relatives of the corpse. I would hate to give them hope where there is none to be discovered, and I would hate even more to reveal mine or the corpse's current predicament to the world. Such is the nature of my business.
I can hear the familiar tick of a clock now over the beat of this unfamiliar heart. Time is pacing only forth once again. Car headlights stretch new flatworms across the room. I close my eyes.
I was a boy of 15 years when I met her. I had a penis then, as most boys do. I had a recent and confusing desire for women as well, which is also common I am told.
High school was an odd time. The campus to me was a barren landscape. It was an old abandoned theme park, even on the most exciting days. I knew plenty of people there. I thought of them as friends. I knew their names and I spoke with them and I joked with them. None of them touched my soul. Not one of them.
I had a friend at school named Samuel Brennan. He was my best friend. Samuel and I played basketball together on the courts at lunch. Samuel's mother was pregnant with a baby girl. Samuel's father was away most of the time. His father had to fly out of the country almost every week. I never knew what his job was. I didn't care.
The day I met Samuel's pregnant mother was the day I fell in love. That was the day Mrs. Brennan's water broke. That was also the day my heart broke.
Part 2
I was 16 years old when I first committed suicide. I was 16 years, 11 months, 14 days, 11 hours, 53 minutes, and 24 seconds old the night I let a bullet into my brain from my father's Sig Sauer 9 mm handgun. I assume they found my body slumped over the computer chair in the basement next to the suicide note I wrote with a blue ballpoint pen. I hate blue ballpoint pens. It was the only ****ing pen I could find.
We are living in a time of rapid technological advancement. We are living in a time of political revelation and disillusionment. We are living in a time of progress, a time of revolution, and we are living in such a way that we might not allow ourselves to live much longer. In other words, absolutely nothing has changed.
It feels as though plenty has changed for me. I am alive right now for one thing. That's new. I am 30 years old. That's new too. At least that is how long I have been alive up to this point. It is harder to enumerate my age if I include how long I have been dead, so I will not try to do that. I will not bother explaining what exactly that means right now either. It is wise to avoid complicated explanations I think, a lot simpler and just as useful. Believe me! I have had a lot of time to find these sorts of things out, a lot more than 30 years.
It has been that long exactly since the day I was born. I would call it my birthday, but there are connotations there. This isn't a day worthy of a cake. For one, I have just awoken in a hospital bed. The walls are off-white, and my sheets are off-whiter, probably because my body has been sweating... and ****ting and pissing. Though, I think someone has been taking care of the last two. I will apologize to the nurse when he stops by. A body in a bed is a wretched useless thing to keep alive, to propagate the ****ting and the pissing. Lucky for me that they did, though. I am pissing right now I think. It is hard to tell with all these damned tubes. Yes, I must apologize to that nurse...
He will not be in for a while though, I suspect. It is quite dark. The only light in the room is from the blinds, allowing strips of blue moonlight, like long flat worms on the wall. Long flat flatworms they extracted from my **** and stretched out onto the wall like trophies of unhealth above my lifeless but living body.
I really should not call it my body. It is new to me, and news to me. This is another good reason I will not be celebrating my birthday tonight: the body has not yet agreed to my possession. These eyes flick open and closed at my will, but their goals are still unaided by the bend of this neck.
A few weeks must be spent breaking in the corpse, a task to be accomplished between daylight. I have done it before this way. In the meantime and the daytime I will practice my sleep and dreams, which are pleasures I have not enjoyed in the living equivalent of many years. I will stay a seeming coma patient for now.
I will not make my peace with the nurse then, in case the hospital contacts relatives of the corpse. I would hate to give them hope where there is none to be discovered, and I would hate even more to reveal mine or the corpse's current predicament to the world. Such is the nature of my business.
I can hear the familiar tick of a clock now over the beat of this unfamiliar heart. Time is pacing only forth once again. Car headlights stretch new flatworms across the room. I close my eyes.
I was a boy of 15 years when I met her. I had a penis then, as most boys do. I had a recent and confusing desire for women as well, which is also common I am told.
High school was an odd time. The campus to me was a barren landscape. It was an old abandoned theme park, even on the most exciting days. I knew plenty of people there. I thought of them as friends. I knew their names and I spoke with them and I joked with them. None of them touched my soul. Not one of them.
I had a friend at school named Samuel Brennan. He was my best friend. Samuel and I played basketball together on the courts at lunch. Samuel's mother was pregnant with a baby girl. Samuel's father was away most of the time. His father had to fly out of the country almost every week. I never knew what his job was. I didn't care.
The day I met Samuel's pregnant mother was the day I fell in love. That was the day Mrs. Brennan's water broke. That was also the day my heart broke.
Part 2
I was 16 years old when I first committed suicide. I was 16 years, 11 months, 14 days, 11 hours, 53 minutes, and 24 seconds old the night I let a bullet into my brain from my father's Sig Sauer 9 mm handgun. I assume they found my body slumped over the computer chair in the basement next to the suicide note I wrote with a blue ballpoint pen. I hate blue ballpoint pens. It was the only ****ing pen I could find.