Sorry's all Over

"Time... Time to live again, yes?"

It didn't even serve as a question anymore, since the answer is known, and has been known. Every time it came about again: now was the time to live, to exit dreamland, to walk amongst the living and above the dead. Our faces are no more, no, but one unified construct, and our voices no longer a chorus, but a single one. And together our foots fall as one. It always came at the end, as I realized it. I would be walking and conversing with everyone, each unique face of my own accord; their mouths moving, and I unaware of the strings at my fingers.

Are we naturally so small in each others presence? Our minds so separate? I remember calling out to you in my dream, did no prayers reach you?

No, the walls here are nothing but air, wide-open air stretching for miles, across continents, across light-years; it exists within myself. I sit and nothing comes of it, same as if I had worked, or if I had dreamed, thought, wept. Inside of that, the death of all of my passion, and it's residual emotions null. Thus, we only feel a need to wander and find a loophole inside of ourselves, feel the urge to dig into our minds and find what we're missing in our consciousness. Do I mean to improve myself?

Improve, as if I was meant for anything more?

Split; I'll stay as such.

Who is Who

"To exist within myself, and to be anyone but myself?"

The sun came over the same hills as the moon did, and both shined down on us. Somewhere, someone walked back in a house, a child on the street, or the playground, lost in the woods for the first time, instincts kicking in and everything else matting so much less than it ever has. I remember, the same as you, and everyone else will remember: when we are threatened, everything stops mattering. Philosophy, your God or gods, the clothes you paid for, the normality of your life. The second it all is about to go away, it is already away.

Do we trifle within our own desires? Or is the devil a child and us ants in the sun?

There was a fireplace, fire roasting softly. The crackling being the only sound in the house, some one scribbling in the corner: there was a Bible in those pieces of symbols and letters and words, religion in the boys eyes. It's the same thing that's within all of us to some degree; we want to see ourselves in each other. It's why we share, why we unite, why we rejoice and why we live for those close to us. He looked up, eyes cracked open, raw, tears almost.

The thought that weighed down on me was that I could never escape my own mind. It was a prison that was life, or everything. The walls and the doors around them all were all the same. I would interact and soon find myself silent, only speaking back in my mind, and eventually the words of other just illusions in my mind, possible futures. I had stopped writing my Bible. No, I had never started writing it. The fireplace was silent, the day still alive, music filling the room.

I looked down and asked myself which I was in.

To work for nothing, and end a day somewhere, but always the same place: unconscious, and bound to forget everything and everyone that you will know for the lifetime that is your dream. There was little else to think about: scenarios, different ways that the past might have turned out, adding in too many details to count, and then trying to figure out where your next story is gonna go, even if it's against the rules of the game. I scribbled it all down in my copy of Welcome to the Monkey House, after re-reading the first half, once I had finished the last.

It was one of those days where the clouds loom in and around the city, and the fog is thick enough to lose track of all the distant buildings clustered outside of your window, off and away, but not too far away to feel as though it's not connected to you. The world was gray, and everyone in it, in limbo.

We try to stray away from our own missteps in life, and try not to think about those which shake us feverishly and unrelentlously, but they're either masked with some stupid and semi-cheerful thought, or just sitting there, unused, but not forgotten. That is, when we aren't dwelling on them strictly, knowing what the thought would do to us, but feasting as though it actually seems appetizing. The last five hours of my life has been the latter, so from experience, I can tell you that it's not appetizing.

In fact, it's nauseous. But when your mind has to be dwelling on something, it's better to eat what you fear the most than to starve and lose what you have left of yourself.

Maybe later, and this is hope, human, human hope, but maybe later the thought will be dismissed, and my mind free to wander in the world again; able to rebuild sanity inside of the infinite of limbo: the infinite of today.