old stories: and these are the...

i randomly found this unfinished piece while throwing out old data cds, and how luckily that i did.

"and these are the deaf fences hit"


| prologue |

...there are edges of the mind that appear dull, and then there are those that aim with precision. substance of the mind is that of our words. thought, a projection of the mind, relays information in apparent silence. this silence helps project the idea of separation, an idea that creates experience. you are not even holding this book. what you are holding is an idea. in fact, you’ve just put the thought down before falling back into the comfort of ignorance...

the pages melt between fingers. he sits at the library table, across from her, waiting to be cured of this salty malaise, a dangling sensation on the tip of his tongue. the words are there for him to speak with, but an excuse of execution still must be found before the launch sequence. this message, a dichotomy of letters that lacks any form or shape of an alphabet, a seamless wait for the inevitable implosion of the mind... stop!

she raises her brow to his, is something the matter here? no, nothing matters, from here to your side of the table, it’s all the same wood. she does not speak, and needs not too, if communicating with him is what she wants to do, a forked brow to his attention is all she needs to do. remember why you are here, she says, keep reading that book. it’s pointless, why struggle over words that make no difference to what i can choose for myself now? a waste of time if you ask me. i didn’t ask, and don’t worry, she says, it’ll get to that eventually. was she referring to the aspect of time or the things he could not say? regardless, a feeling of prenuptial escapism came to his belly, which was sick of linguistic terms, and outside-the-box shaped thinking. his mind reached out and said goodbye, i’m leaving. why do i have to change or choose anything that already is to be different at all? what’s wrong with just letting it be? there is nothing wrong here, her hands cooped, all you have to remember is why you’ve chosen for it to be that way, did you even make that choice for instance? good point. her eyes phased back to the book in front of her, the cover said: either you consider that or you probably shouldn’t even be here. senseless babble, remnants of empty words and promises, that’s all he saw before him. the malaise began to slide. fine, he stood up, i need some fresh air, i’ll be back in a bit. i hope so, she said calmly. the book cover seemed to have an entirely different opinion: no you won’t.


| chapter one |

the streets outside place him into a state of discomfort, he now wants to go back to her and to those books. the lost sort through cans they’ve stored in their hulls, with life not seeming to ever have presented a decent gust of wind to mast their sails and get them to where they needed to be going. yet it always has, they’ve just never tried using a different kind of fabric to catch the right wind.

several stores also line the streets, both ways, and all have been ransacked for supplies, this is a common sight to see ever since it occurred. he shakes his head, even after we finally discover the freewill that we’ve always had, some beings still hold onto their silly illusions. explain yourself. well you see, it has been almost two years since it occurred, almost two years since i’ve eaten or drank water. almost two years since i’ve done anything to care for my self, the old way, simply because i don’t need to, and neither do they. ever since it happened, i’ve come to the conclusion that there are three types of beings left in this so-called-reality. three types, three choices, or variants there of.

first off, the lost, a name i’ve given to those who refuse to believe what has come to pass, and what they are capable of. they stick to their old beliefs and squabble amongst each others possessions. they cherish separation. the way they live is not wrong, it’s just another way of living, one that does not work for me.

secondly, the found, in other words, those who have remembered their selves. much like her and i, they are rare, yet always a pleasure to spend time with. each one has their own way of helping another remember who you are. they cherish the oneness of it all. the way they live is not wrong, it’s just another way of living, one that does not work for me.
then finally, the corrupt. it’s extremely unlikely that a lost will ever come to accept or realise what it is capable of, though some do. they harness that with their ideas of separation and combine them with old beliefs. fortunately, i’ve only fought one in the past two years. they are very aggressive and confused, using their freewill to take advantage of any other lower beings belief system. the way they live is not wrong, it’s just another way of living, one that does not work for me.

one must always remember that: the way they live is not wrong, it’s just another way of living, one that does not work for me.

the way that works for me? no response.

he begins to walk towards the park, broken swing sets mark the land here, a disgrace to the most innocent of beings, children, creations of us. we were once like them, with the enormous urge to learn, an urge that should never die. the unfortunate reality of it is that we teach them to be like us, instead of helping them seek their selves. when humanity falls into such a slide, it becomes over excited, giggling all the way down to an inevitable relapse, no change. if it were not for what had occurred, we’d still be there, and in some ways we still are. he tries not to think about it, the past that is.

a fountain of acidic sludge and disease lies at the centre of the park, spewing the foul stench of its existence. he sits by it, places his hand through the surface. it’s cold. he then removes his hand, clean, as if it never had been placed there. acknowledging that it does not have to be this way, he blinks his eyes slowly and the water is now pure. a slight smile comes over his face. a soft voice speaks, you’re learning quickly. there’s nothing to learn, he says, only that which we have to remember. the voice giggles, that’s what i mean, you know what i mean, you always do. he turns to his side and sees a small girl sitting beside him, with eyes of an eternity, a thought of his own, manifested to become an experience. why do you always insist on bringing me fourth? as she spoke, the brown grass around them became green. his eyes focused back on the water, wading a finger in circles through it. i enjoy talking to you, it’s refreshing. she looks at the sky, once grey, now cloudless blue. i think you just like listening to yourself. that may be true, gathering water in his hands he splashes it against his face. this feeling i have, it’s quite overwhelming, and i don’t know how i should deal with it sometimes. a puzzled look comes over her face, i’m confused, you feel as if you are missing something? he laughs lightly, something? more like someone. her face focuses, as if she knows exactly what he is talking about, do you know what’s happened here? his face is blank. everyone of you has the freewill do what you will with your life, to create what you wish to experience most, to remember what you have only forgotten, to grow into the butterflies that you all are. he taps his feet slowly, making sure the ground is still solid. so what you are saying is, that this is but the first phase of things to come? she shakes her head, what i’m saying is that i’m not actually saying anything at all, what you’re remembering is that, if anything, this world is still but in a cocoon, if you will, and whether or not that it blooms into a butterfly or dies trying is all up to you. he looks around, she faces the rubble, and it comes to life. trees that were once ripped and torn are whole, swing sets sway in full motion, children are playing everywhere. you know sometimes i feel like i can do more things with you here than when i’m alone. she smiles, it’s all you silly, and that’s what troubles you. he places his hands at his side in silence, closing his eyes. she looks back at the thoughts once created, now rubble. his eyes open. she faces him, you know it’s coming, it’s already here, you don’t have to deal with it, you owe it nothing, give it none of your time and it will pass you by.

he already made his choice, whether he wanted it or not, he chose for it to occur, exactly as it would now unfold. he looks to her and her space is empty. peering back at the water, all he sees is re-emerging sludge, pouring from the faucets of the fountain. looking further and beyond he sees a solemn figure. lowering his head he speaks, why do you wish to do this again? it doesn’t respond, it has already made its choice, a poor one at that, one that had not been thawed enough before actually taking a bite, shattering teeth. he got up and spun around, the figure rushed him. as it came closer the appearance of the corrupt confirmed that it was the same as before. the howl that came from its lungs was full of hate and confusion. of its own existence perhaps? who knew. the first fist that came his way hit him hard in the shoulder, why did he give him that, perhaps it was a way to encourage the fiend to keep chasing him, for what ever reason he let that be. the rest of the punches and kicks just passed through his being. the corrupt howled at the fact that it could do him no harm. he knew that he did not have to be here, and that this did not have to be happening.

in acknowledging this, his eyes blink slowly...