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Category: Writing and Poetry
It is possible to loose oneself between the breathing walls. Some people call it depression, but It's not that simple, because there are neither sad nor negative thoughts involved. Simple acceptance. Read on. It did happen.
___ 22:22 - the story __
Chapter 1
Awakening came with the shivering of a sticky tv remote. The channels tried to change him. Again. Numbers on the remote were pressed against his chest, trying to flip a channel in his head. He screamed. Or maybe it was just the telly. Mechanical voice kept repeating : czy jeste¶ na to gotowy? Mantric words that didn't make any sense at this moment. The wall behind him sighed. There was a large amount of white bottle caps piled against the wall. Three hundred and sixty three, times two, times ten. He sometimes wondered if he really did touch each and every one of them. The old ones were covered with rust. The sun was setting, and he felt that this day is not worth coming into anyway. So he took the white and red rag he used so many times. Then he grabbed that same bottle of chloroform and spilled some over the rag. Inhaled. Exhaled. His country flag was wishing him sweet dreams. The world got lighter, and he got heavier. Descension was quick, but it seemed to be lasting forever. Thankfully it was a soft landing. The sounds dissolved from the walls. A low, underwater-like static filled the room. Then the tones formed from the static. Little black bugs came out of every crack and hole, and covered the windows. They sat on the glass, slowly shaking their heads.
larva chewing through the shell / of it's silent innocence / escaping printed visions of hell / into comfy decadence / And of course it has to be / a reality a bit more confusing / one nobody wants to see / easy exits are so amusing
walls are breathing he noticed. And there was no one there that he could blame for the sounds.
Another mantra descended from the ceiling and wrapped itself around his core.
crave for your fat fingers , at lake shore of pills. Sweet little reminders - your useless degree. Lifespan of cell phones, masses in plastic, dust covered mind drones cry for your nasties. Crave for your e20, lowfat or fatfree. You want your noise and your choice on tv
the craving sets in / locks you within / a set of needs / you'll never need.
The bugs on his windows became fretful. Their shaking and shrieking was all that he could focus on.
butterfly crashed / into the ground / black eyed gnomes / look for the black box
He felt raped.
I am becoming you
Jacob sighed. He didn't know if he was dreaming, dead or just insane. He imagined a contrast of a beautiful woman he saw on the tele with a group of old women whispering constantly : "pray for our sins today,in the day of our death". The word "death" was emphasized. He fell for comfort of the bed again and everything was at it supposed to be. Suddenly he saw some move on the other side of the room. Little claws and little spider-like legs were slowly scratching on the floor.
The shadow was all over them. Drooling and vomiting everywhere, the crabs were closing in on him. Their prey didn't even hear about that silly little shadow archetype. The shadow to him was only the place he'd like to hide in when he was younger. If he was. And now it was the thing that blocked his vision. No change arose suddendly. The genome was stable. Still. All of the 23 chromosomes were at peace. They didn't want to expand. No evolution, no revolution. The vortex didn't suck him in seconds before the claws devouered his pale, unhealthy body. He expected it to happen because that was the usual outcome of such situations according to the box. He accepted the inevitable. But it didn't happen. A few drops of saliva flew through the air and landed on his cheek. He blinked. There were no crabs, and the parade must have been over for millenia now. He craved for warmth. Just for himself. At that point there was no one else in the world that could survive in his mind for more than a split second. No flashbacks or lost memories. Nothing. He was sitting on a pile of rusty bottle caps and thinking about things that he wants. He felt so strong and confident all of the sudden. So in love with himself. Any way he was looking, he saw the world staring at him with full admiration. After all he almost got a degree, and probably had a healthy social life. Like a carrot tied to a stick, the invitations were everywhere. Growing up changed all that. Maybe the sense of desperation arrived shortly after his cell-window to the world went all dead and quiet. At first he was checking the batteries every few minutes. The realization came and went, coming back again with double force. It was over. Life as it is was over, but he seemed to still be alive, weirdly ignoring the fact of his non-existence. He tried to put his fingers to his head everyday and shoot himself with this meaty gun-replica.
You thought you have everything? Is life going ok for you? The rate, the pace and the routines keep reminding about the nonsense and consistency of all the actions taken or about to be taken. Nothing can be understood really, so just go on with the program and shut up. Fucking idiots. He hated their guts for every sunday-morning shopping spree and for every family social event imaginable. Fear and emptiness was leaking from their eyes, masked by their designer clothes and million dollar smiles. As simple as that, life tried to surprise him with new things, that seemed old at the same time. And there's always someone above you. Someone smarter, prettier, happier. Someone who made it where you failed. Someone less miserable too if that's all you can think of. (His monologues were going out of hand sometimes, switching perspectives and changing points of view in mid-sentence). That someone is as ubiquitous as he can be. Showing off in the box. Showing off on a milk carton. Showing off in a show room, and in the Big fucking shopping centre, filled with amazed retards. He made their day by a single gesture, or a few words cast thoughtlessly into the eager crowd. Hey, you dumb fuck, there is a lottery here, so get your coupon and stand in the fucking line, like a cow ready to be slaughtered. Packed with the rest and guided by the big man. The ubiquitous. Nervous systems become static and an old habit of standing in long lines comes back to life, even if it's not needed anymore. Social criticism - Jacob thought - is not without a sense of irony. After all he was one of them. One of the stupid fucks that can loose two hours waiting for a free coffee sample, or some now shitty yoghurt. Simple logic of a surviving creature is to conquer and enslave the lesser specimens. He envied The Big Men so much. During the long, cold nights in his dirty room he dreamed of being one of them. Or at least someone from their environment. He even could be a dishwasher or a fridge. Just imagine a bowl of ice-cream stuck between his eager teeth.
And then Jacob fell down. A few whispering voices started to debate his fate. He saw their shadows all around him. Four horesmen of the sane man's world. To him it was as good as death. Their were planning his marriage, his family life, and his new hobbies. He felt an arm reaching down and inside him, checking if he liked it. He probably didn't so the outcome of a female companion was more probable. He drooled all over himself and started shaking. The shadows one by one started to dissolve. After all he didn't expect any guests in here before he dies. The first ones would be the police, alarmed by the neighbours about a weird smell coming out of his apartment.
8:12 PM
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