The Mind is Poison

Chapter 1

What have I acheived? I have been displaced on this dreary, dying Earth for so long, oh so long now and what have i acheived? What has anyone acheived in truthful answer? I see now that I am just another cog juttering around aimlessly trying to make some 'Machine' work. My mind is poisoned.

Out of the fourth story window, I had been gazing aimlessly all day - all of my life to be exact, observing the ever-growing distance needed to be travelled across an Earth inwhich I was trapped insignificantly inside. The sky, a vast expanse of emptiness - no life, no vibrancy, not even the common site of drizzling rain - stood there waiting, the inevitable future destined unknowingly by it, consuming what should have been of a life. The road most travelled - the safe life, the insignificant ant working for the entirety of its life so to find a land that is a fragment near to the one I am locked inside . That is what I should have had. Maybe, if I ever could have wanted so, so much less that I did, that I could have travelled across the common road. But I didn't. I could have bumbled along the road of ordinary life, stayed with those people that I called Mother and Father - two people who I ceased to understand or... remember until I started transcribing the events which befell me.

Ah, Mother and Father. Mum and Dad? The people with whom I shared genes and nothing else of significance. Passing them, that is how I spent my first life; the first 17 years, 45 weeks and 3 days were spent with them before I supposedly lost them forever - that is, to say, if I ever had them at all...

Dear Mother, if this recollection is ever to manage to reach you, I apologise for what may seem a hyperbolic, over-sensitive description. However, you were never there. Dear Father; every description, every mention, every errant thought about you is true in its entirety. You were the inevitable form from which I 'escaped' from, the ruler of imprisonment and the only monster ever to eclipse the true evil I encountered. The Original Master, The Murderous Storm, Father. No epithet fits you well enough. I look back on you with so much disdain.

Mother. A beautiful, strong-willed women but was she ever a mother, my mother? Never. 'Mother' was the word that drew viaducts of bile to circle her mind, eradicating any maternal instinct - I never knew any mother and no mother ever knew me. A wise being recently told me once i recollected her that "some were never destined to be parents" - you didn't even try. My memory of Mother's aesthetics has faded beyond recognisation but I've clinged to a few fragments; she was a beautiful, steel woman - an air of brilliance and immovability. I cling most to the metallic blue eyes: something I never managed to inherit. Needless to say, we never had any form of relationship; I was adventure and wonder, she was uncluttered and unapproachable and married to my father.

The memory I retain of Father is stronger and much more unwanted; he left an irreversible imprint, an imprint brandished onto my back today even though my body degenerates. How to describe my father? He was 'The Inevitable'. Inevitable as he waits for one to ruin thing so to ruin them. Inevitable as he waits for my return only to throw my off somewhere else where return is even more impossible than this overturned empire. A storm of bitterness and revulsion against the advancing world, taken out on those that cannot be kept to 'his standard'. Fortunetly, I saw my mother more than him - she had no maternal instinct but she harboured forgiveness. Another trait I failed to inherit.

I lived in this smog cluttered, indistinct England for 17 years. Amongst hooligans, evolution, threats and fear; I dreamed of my free world in the pouring rain in my imprisonment called a house. Leaving the house would only anger Father, thus I dreamt only in imprisonment. I dreamt of a world outside of my windows where the sky wasn't just this vast expanse of emptiness, our streets weren't oppressed by grey tarmacking inviting the rain to repetitively 'plunk, plunk' upon it and houses were not the 'saviours' of each persons' day, lined up in their expansive, over-organised rows.

Have you ever noticed how we built houses in our own image? We tried to create these 'things' as if we were Gods taming the Earth, straining to put reigns upon it and pleading it to speed up its advancements. Well, I've met the closest any person will get to being a God - a deluded being, enforcing themselves as God and the Devil - and we, as humans, were kidding ourselves for a small expanse of time. Nature always wins.

Having been trapped in this England for what seemed like such a monumentous time back then, I was... resigned, yes resigned is the word. In the final approach to death that I face now, I can only look back and see resignation as a saviour - a blotter of destructive instincts leading to the war that encompasses here.

The End

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