A Reality More Real

[009] - July 27, 2008

Last night, I closed my eyes tightly when everything was quiet, save for the sound of the whirring of my computer and the soft cutting of air by the fan above me. I let my eyes roll around underneath my eyelids. The only thing I could see was black, or whatever I perceived to be black (or was it just the "absence of light" that my art teacher described way back a couple of elections?). But this black had flickers of light that wasn't really light. The five senses could never pinpoint such movements—not figures—in words. And I wondered if this is what I see when I sleep, what I saw before I lived, or what will be what I see after I've lived. Then this thought set off many tangents that started wondering about sleep, life, and the afterlife. What kind of questions were they? I had no reason to wax philosophic with myself? We don't move; time does. We don't change. Time changes. We are who we are. Stop. Just. Stop. Thinking. And with a sigh, I opened my eyes again, only to shoo flickers of light away and gone. But they'll return. They always have.

For Nobody

[008] - November 24, 2007

Though the subject may lead one to think pretentiousness on my part, I do mean to address this to one named Nobody, someone far older than I. He told me he loved me as much as I told him I loved him, so we both loved. So far, separated by time and oceans... never once did have I seen his face. Just as one can expect a nonperson to be, he is exceedingly reticent now. Is it possible to miss someone who never existed?

Flagging Opulence

[007] - November 19, 2007

At his desk, he writes, the ink spilling from his pen along with its company of scritches and zips of hurried sensations as he anxiously wills his hands to keep the pace his mind charges with no lag. His writing is the birth of a brother thought, a reflection of himself but which is not him, a relation at the disposal beneath his fingertips. He briefly pauses and sighs at his unmet expectations and commits another act of fratricide with the clumsy crumpling of the paper, tossing it to the side.

My Unreal Brother

[006] - August 19, 2007

I can barely remember it. He stood there, and I remember reaching out my arms to him. Although sleep was dragging me into its dark abyss, I still recalled the strength of his arms as he squeezed me. I smiled with my eyes closed and told him that I would miss him dearly. Then sleep took me in an effort to console me. When I woke, he was gone.

Swings

[005] - August 10, 2007

As the sun dips past the horizon, they rush toward the sky, next to each other. Air fills and leaves excited lungs as each girl remembers the past decade of chains that lunged forward and back. They relish the resurrected days of swinging too high as the chains twist in warning and snap the skin of their palms. This is their last indulgence before leaving the playground of their childhood.

Weathered Expectations

[004] - August 9, 2007

We have played this game too long, but I will not admit to loss.

On The Noise

[003] - August 7, 2007

It unwelcomingly fills my ears as floods would to quaint houses on days the world menstruates. But no one knows what this noise is. It is the stranger that rushes into a room as soon as chatterboxes seal their lids. It is the ruckus that starts as soon as distaster is announced. It is the ineffable horror that lights up in children's eyes. It is the spirit estranged from sound.

Windows

[002] - August 5, 2007

Her mother had known the window, as did her mother's mother. It allowed each girl to look but never reach nor open—to always wait and never pursue. But she refused to assume tradition and hurled herself out, shards sticking in her and all. No longer did she remain by the glass. She could now teach her own not to know such pane.

Starvation

[001] - August 4, 2007

For mankind has always known Hunger, long before he ever spoke. Who is to say Hunger was not the first urge we befriended? (Maybe sex.) But such a lonely and destructive friend is Hunger. Although taming needs little mastery, the means for doing so are sometimes rare indeed.