A short story of a man torn between the physical and the metaphysical, teetering on the line of madness. Can you pick out the abundant symbolism?
I wonder, have you ever felt grief, true sorrow, where the depths of your being are tested, beyond your knowledge. Have you felt the undesirable urge to thrust yourself from the world, or thrust deep into the abyss? Blackness consumes you, it eats you from your core; I have no doubt, you will become a mess of gluttony and despair that poets fail to comprehend.
As you lay awake, do you think of a better life, I know I do. A world where men are met with beautiful women, food is abundant and money is dead, thrown to the pits of fire, or fed to the pigs, I don’t care! It’s just gone. Do you wish that things were different? I certainly know I do.
A reckoning comes for us all, mine was merely in disguise.
As I sit, here, in my chair, that appears as though it has been beaten. I realize my loneliness. A mountain of unclean laundry nestles above my television, my television that pummels me with an endless hum, a song of broken parts. On this mountain, that no man dare to stand against, rests a catastrophe of muddled papers, scrap and various brands of fast food, as though they were trying to escape the harshness of the filth ridden ground by standing atop what can only be described as filth of equal measure. It’s quite sad actually, seeing a box of my favourite chicken harmlessly sit out of reach, I’d like to think it’d never harm me, but that’s just wishful thinking I suppose.
To the left of this heap is my prized possession, a leaning tower of empty bottles, of the alcohol variety, the best kind. It’s a fragile monument, and it doesn’t care much for wind, no, in fact I dare say it despises it, and who could blame it, the wind becomes a nuisance after a while anyway, so I had to shut it out. It took some effort getting the boards over the windows and the foam in the cracks, but now I can rest peacefully in my own stench, like the higher powers intended, or spirits or nature or what-have-you.
My leaning tower, though it is indeed fragile, glistens brighter than any sun, a red glare emanating from the various reflections the glass delivers. That blasted blinking light from the DVD player has never been so lovely.
But that’s not all this house of fantasy has to offer! Oh no, far from it, further down the hall, on a lean to the left, you can see the corpses of fruit, the skin of thine enemy!
I jest of course, that is known as the forbidden zone, the stench is unbearable, I could hide a mound of bodies in this house and no one would have a clue. Lucky you, and finally, at the end of our tour, we have, the volatile pile of scrunched papers, a devastating pitfall of broken ideas, oh the humanity!
How dreary, dark and drum!
A feeble failure of finding myself, oh why!?
I wound myself the longer I stay here, in this room, this land of forgotten comrades. This sensational room of devastating despair, I’ve been plunged into a plagued ridden land, the residence residing in sickly sulks as they desperately cling to clambering heights, that they will never reach. Much like myself in fact, oh yes, acute observation there is a bravery involved in bartering ones life to the brought goods of the supermarket, bewildering bravery that beckons applause, Ah-ha!
I wish I were a merry man, I do, honestly. But I find myself in a constant decent, watching the world plummet around me, or is it I who is plummeting?
Stresses articulate all my addresses, these issues that would subside if not for their arbitrary importance; it sickens me, thinking of such sufficiently drab necessities.
A sink full of broken dreams, shattered to a point where the shards are invisible to the naked eye, stuck in the drainage, damaging the pipes. A few fragments of this destruction rest on the ground, defiled by the coldness the cracked tiles emanate; it’s a sad reality, for these broken plates.
These fragments of a former whole, broken by the slip of a hand, the nudge of a hip, the shock of reality, tell me, how is this plate to mend itself? Or is it just to be thrown out, softly plucked from the ground only to be placed in a plastic cage of filth. Can it be mended? These sharp shards, I don’t know. I never tried.
For the men who try, I applaud your efforts, bravo! But I must also warn of the implications these invoke upon you, lord forbid we let you bask in your glory, no, there is a negative for everything, of that we are all equal.
Dastardly daring is this world, provoking such preposterous ideas, indicating a fruitless fairness to appease those appalling persons we so shockingly look up to.
Those perpetrators of underlying horridness, but they’d never let you know that, oh no.
I look upon thee and bellow a mighty shout “Who dare to cross these lands, this plain of ice and snow, a barren yarn of wickedness” I would ask for a coin, or maybe two, a fee not so harsh, accounting for the various troubles I face in your stead. I, the man with the mask, I would ask of you a riddle, if I thought you could handle such a mental grace. The mind, it plays such wicked tricks, prodding the moral compass of all those it holds in its titan grasp, with desires shrouded in shadow, the ever increasing desires that take hold of the gullible self that enrols itself to an infants relation to the physical objects of this realm. A figure cloaks itself in a veil of wonder, a costume of mystery and intrigue, what might it be?
You know, I once dreamed of being a great magician, oh yes. After my dream of becoming an astronaut and the president of course, or my ludicrous idea to becoming a secret agent, I now only have a lonely box of tricks resting atop my shelving. Resting tentatively in its open grave, I could go back, try again, at least in my own mind I could make it to the finish line. ‘The great earl of magic’ ‘The fantastical magical Mr. Strange’ I’d be called one of those, I had it all planned, from my tricks to my assistant, amazingly, I had my eyes on one assistant who was very beautiful, yes indeed, young me had my eyes on such beauty. I decided that we’d concentrate on the more brutal tricks, the ones that leave the audience in awe and horror, it seems to distil their suspicions against magicians, we had the perfect plan, the perfect life. Until her untimely demise…
A terrible turn of events, but perhaps it was the most likely. It’s not unlikely that the likelihood of it was higher than something, less horrid. Perhaps I should have chosen to be a secret agent, travelling from magic country to magic country, serving my country, maybe then I would live a better life, one of more prominent danger, but with the same chances of death, after all, this lifestyle is most probably killing me, I don’t suspect I have much time left, but I don’t suspect I have the energy to change, besides, my funeral wont be too expensive.
What a horrid place I call home. A murmuring blackness blatantly burning the goodness that guides those individual fossils that emit some lightness in such a dark atmosphere, I ponder the poisons, the plutocratic fatness that tempts fate to a game of life, which only ends in failure. Such decorative demands are made of demonic composure; a lack of grievance gives a sense of guile to these frantic devils.
Perhaps these lands that linger on the line of death, doomed by those who trample the crust, crafting buildings from the beaten grounds beneath, tragic ideas traverse these lives, those tormented persons, tracking a promised life, turmoil comes from such promises that cannot be met, at least for the majority, for those left, the ones referred to as the one percent, those who live a life of luxury. In a twist of life, those same one percent are those who make such unfounded promises, as though to them, it were a game, a sick game to play on those who struggle through life, mental peace is never an option for those who struggle financially, to find love in a life such as this is a blessing, if it truly happens at all.
I’m trapped, in a dungeon of my own design, materials surround me, the menacing and numerous piles of knolling filth trap me in a wall of pain. Abundant disks, formally found to be fond memories, scattered across the table, some fallen to the floor, a pattern of disappointment, for what pattern could be seen. I find myself to be happier in these recordings of a previous life, amazing actually, how much things can change, how much things do change. I used to be a lucrative man, a man of opportunity and wealth, with a happy family, a family that loved me for every vice I had. I wonder if it’s possible for them to be happy anymore, with dirt covering their eyes and muffling their mouth, I imagine it to be quite difficult. It could have been fated, what happened to me, perhaps I was always supposed to end up a pig, surrounded by my own filth, merely inhaling the toxins that defile my home. It is a possibility, but either way, here I am.
Be free, free from these fractured, frail shackles that bind you, shackles made from the failures of a fruitless life, this tremendous trap I traversed my way to, what luck!
Do not attempt to console me, with feeble attempts of compassion, such complicit emotion is foreign to our kind, this human race, the race that seems to do nothing but race one another to the finish line, the end of which is a mystery, the ever-shifting finish line, it eludes my grasp, and many of my brethren. Over and over, and over and over, it eludes my grasp.
To think that such grievances would come my way, despite a life of relative honesty, for what honesty could be composed.
I tried a life of composed comparison to those men who have more in common with a penguin than a man, I dare say it worked out, to the most part, until continuing this composure became more of a hassle that it did a greatness, I do not blame anyone for this, nor myself for that matter, merely the fact that we are not taught the values of respect, I never truly learnt, I simply guessed.
What does society think of a man whose shelves are empty; a barren wasteland of cream isles, relevant to the void that stays empty in its vastness, despite what it swallows. I find myself in a wasteful state of wandering bewilderment, as such, I find myself also to be a shining example of a slithering rebellion to the social norms that dictates so deliberately, the lives of those directed by this devil, this order of society, and hardly depict the travesty of their own existence, the horror of it all.
Such madness, It’s maddening, to mediate through the mind, as a matter of fact, I declare that the insanity of it all is not only profound in its state of climax, but undeniable and to a degree that would turn those of sanity to a life of near madness, not only a strange idea, but one that knolls the bell of the subconscious, how bizarre.
Madness consumes this world, it takes up so much space that a veil of sanity is shifted over the world to better conceal the monstrous nature of our being, that so consumes our soul, waiting, hiding, Observing.
Madness though… well, I don’t seem to have much room for it.