This was an essay I wrote several months ago by compiling many common themes I had been thinking and writing about at the time.
This journal is for you, so you will know the story of my days, so you will understand the hope I have, and so you will understand why I left, though I cannot expect forgiveness.
I have been without sleep for many days now, and I begin to feel it in my bones.
I feel the land crying to me, reaching for an end to its pain.
I hear the deep wells flowing, pouring out lifeblood to sustain us.
I see the skies shot with fire and soot, a red sun rising through the smoke, the last trees burning.
I smell acrid burning flesh and human hair.
I am content, though I strive for a cause that may be insanity. I remember friends. I remember death.
Most of all, I remember and look forward to life.
The end of all things has come, will soon go. I brace myself for the joy that awaits.
Soot stings my eyes, and yanks me back to the past. Here I sit, writing of future memories. These visions of the future are just as real as all my past memories, but they are filled with so much more emotion.
I did not always remember the future. I do not always remember everything of the past. I flit (perhaps jerk is more accurate) from past to future to other. Jumps happen frequently, and the consequences of each step are never known.
The only thing tying me here is my belief that this is where I am supposed to be. Without such a belief, all of us would fall apart, splice between jumps, or go insane. At least, that’s what I believe. I’ve never seen it happen, or rather, the memories of such things are very faint. Faint memories are sometimes constructs, but that means nothing. Sometimes the strongest dreams become reality, and they are too seamless to have let me flit from them to present reality.
Or perhaps the only thing that ties me here is you.
I have so many memories of you, but I can never quite see your face. The one thing all these places have in common is dreams of you. I hope that we will meet someday. I know we already have, but the memory has faded beyond recognition as you and I have jumped to places far distant from when we were together.
Around the same time I came to believe in splitting, I started to notice its effects. I would walk on one side of a telephone pole or tree and see one scene. I would go back and walk around the other side and fall into another world. There was always a little glitch when I did that. The world would jump just a little as the inconsistencies straightened out. Of course the scenes were the same; it took me a long time to notice that inconsistencies existed. Sometimes birds would appear or disappear. There would often be a slight but swift change in weather. The strangest and most subtle inconsistency was the sounds. It took far more attention than I had at first to notice the music, the few notes blending with the natural sounds at the gaps between places.
Gaps exist everywhere. Wherever there is a choice between places to go, the world splits. But the were matters much less than the when. Every instant you wait is a choice, as significant a difference as the direction.
shuddering, hateful loving tells us what is past and what (we fear, we know) will come again — for it already has, you see. we know only the past, but in seeing we see more than just the future.endless, horrid rhyming sung to the tune of my soul, bound to it, the fruit poisoned by my own( I took it as my own) hatred; no more endless falling, more endlessly leaping off with broken-width bones as we hit the ground with that ever-sickening thud… We feel again, and It is Beautiful, but the feeling hurts, the mask, the masquerade, there is nothing behind it any longer ( or so we believe now), for we can only remember that past when we remember who we were. but the masks became us, suffocated us, bound to us broken-boned, beauty-seeking pain-causing (are we even anymore?) people. Yet still we yearn, we ache, we long (we no longer believe there is any other way to feel, but we have misnamed It) for feeling, for beauty. We are people. We have dreams. (we can no longer remember what those dreams were, we convinced ourselves only that we were heading for them, but we left them behind when we told ourselves) This pain, this hatred, this dull existence: Gam Zeh Ya’avor (This Too Shall Pass), but we only half believe it until once again we convince ourselves that our dreaming may become more than reality. (and so, for beauty’s sake we believe that) reality can be more than it is.
and so it goes, past and fear, future and hope.
The splits get more jumpy the more I notice, and now time slides past the aperture. I am fear.
I am afraid. Of what, I know not. but fear exists, and I feel it deeply.
Terror is a hard and biting stick,
A drink too hard to swallow and too sweet to spit
A taste that pervades and consumes all other
-and lingers far longer
A bitter melody of sweet regret, with no bite.
A most unpleasant mix of the pleasantest of flavors
Too soon forgotten and too soon remembered.
Impartial, Suspicious, Grinding.
Tearing, Mauling Biting.
A sweet glimpse of features
Turned, twisted, and unfamiliar
Melted by age and sun —
and bitter, bitter pain;
years of almost — regret
And still at the end you claim you took no part
for why else would you feel lingering there
that same old Terror?
I saw you again today. You were standing in the place I’d dreamt I’d die.
The one dream that scared me so much for all the strangest reasons.
I wasn’t afraid to die. I was afraid of the dream because it was real and so was the terror.
I became more afraid of the dream when they built the buildings and the drainage ditch that I will tumble down into the rock that will destroy my back and lungs.
That was my first future dream. At least, it was the first one I remember remembering as the future.
Perhaps the rhinoceros came first, but the dream was far more important for everyone else’s sake.
But now I realize that this dream too was of a possible future, a necessary future. There was such peace.