I wrote this originally in norwegian, but someone adviced me to translate it..so I did...
My mother collected flowers made of plastic, knickknacks, and bitterness. Mostly that last one.
All in all, I guess I have turned out okay, not necessarily in the positive sense of the word.
I live in the moment so to speak, it can't be healthy. Imagine having mums total absence from life and psychotic look sometimes. I actually wouldn't mind. Everywhere around me there seems to be people who doesn't think about anything. Everywhere there are smiles, not necessarily with joy, but I find it appealing. There is something precious about it, something powerful with the fact that someone can come up with a smile out of anything. I can't do it, I'm not emotionally capable. Something's taking up space in my head, I have no room for happiness or sorrow.
Looking out the café window, I see people passing by. Well, I don't actually see them. Human beings are something that just float around me, passes me by. Less complicated creatures are hard to find. For a long time I had a dream about writing a study about our development to homo sapiens, and our lack of intelligence and ability to act.
But of course, that was impossible. I mean, no one with a hint of stability would have bought that idea. Here I am, a boy in his twenties, slightly alcoholised, preaching about the lost intelligence of mankind. No, I don't think so.
I am a writer, or an artist you name it, but I guess you have already figured that out by now. It isn't something I have chosen to be, it just came to me. When I was a teenager, the thought of the whole world being a created picture with only one intention, that being deprive us of our free mind, pushed it selves on. Everything designed so that we could not see it, live on in a fake lie, that is the way it's supposed to be. Mum was one of these naive souls who couldn't see the clues placed right in front of her porcelain face. But I refused to be a part of it. I would not sell myself to a hallucination of proclaimed happiness. So I packed my few belongings, kissed my naive mother on the cheek there she sat with bitterness in her lap, and walked out the door.
It was a feeling of complexity, I hated the blasphemed lie, also called life, strong, but yet I didn't want to leave it. You see, I had almost started to believe the lie myself.
So here I am. I have realized that there is no use, or possible, to escape from the lie. But it doesn't mean that I have to participate in it.
The only person in my life who I really loved, except my grandmother, was my brother. He was taken from mum in early age, he never had time to fall for the lie. He was so deep and smart that I woke up, realized that this requires attention. He touched something deep inside my own nerve system.
But when you have discovered the lie, have found the clues, you can no longer live in peace. One day I got a call. My brother had been found in a public toilet, of the dirty kind, with his wrists cut over. It sounds like a real cliché, but that phone call turned my whole world upside down. With that phone call followed the lie I had been running from since a was a kid. My mothers weak spirit who wasn't made for living was suddenly surrounding me. Call me cynical, call me cold, but I couldn't stand it, turned her down without remorse there she stood in my door, lecturing me in "keeping together when things get rough". But how could I bare her manic grief when I was blown apart inside from my own?
Except from my narrow minded neighbours, I have no friends. As the years have gone by I have realized that it is probably my own fault. I shut out other people like oil shut out water. From my point of view I am a modest, egocentric, variable unicorn who has more or less neutral ways of seeing things. I want peace on earth and in heaven, at the same time I know that will never happen. I am a regular backstabber of Christ, but I also like to believe that there is something higher than us intellectually poor individuals, walking around on two legs.
Lately, I have been feeling strangely paralyzed. But is has come to my suspicion that there is something going on in the back of my head, and frankly, I don't need to know the details.
There is a picture of my dear brother. I can feel the bitter taste of guilt, consciousness spits on me. I want to bang my head through the wall, hear the sound of bones breaking. I get a desire to put the lights out, both the inner and outer. Still, dreams of his black hair haunts me at night. Fresh in mind, I have the dream where he just disappears in a hallucination of colour and morbid patterns. Leaves a jar with his eyes vide open in fear. I want to free him, but there is no use. Fear and broken will locked up in a glass jar.
When I thought madness was only a wink away, I met the people dressed in black. Captured by the claws of anxiety I didn't question anything, chose to believe whatever this cult told me. Back was the child laying in mothers bed, with the smell of roses in his nose. The guilt, the emptiness taking up all the space in my head, I must have been the perfect victim for a brainwash. They never did something of criminal sort, I guess burning churches was below their dignity. Experimenting with certain narcotic drugs was the closest the got. With me starring the boy who had been dramatically forced out of his surrounding imaginary world, I wasn't hard to ask. You are hallucinating, said the preacher man in black after I had swallowed the white drug. It felt like being suffocated and having to much air at once. The preacher man held up a mirror, pointed out that if I was suffocating I would be turning blue. Half of me could see his point, the other half could not see anything at all. The next morning I packed my few belongings and left, just like I had left my mother.
After my meeting with the preacher man, something has changed. The child in the rose bed has never let go. The feeling of total failure tears me like a genetically insane beast created by my own self-conscious. It feeds on my sorrow for the loss of my own flesh and blood.
The last time we met, he said behind his dark, almost devilish black hair; there is no one like you. I am already one to much, I replied.
Short story by Evelyn
Read 842 times
Written on 2006-08-07 at 22:42
Tags Anxiety
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I am already one to much
A part of me wants late night hours around the fire, soft fabrics and my grandmother's strong perfume. Even though I know it was an artificial world of security. Even though my grandmother was the rock in my life, I don't blame her. She wrapped me up in silk, I can't deny that. But she was a loving person with a beautiful mind of nature. Not like my mum. She wasn't mean, rather a more eccentric person. The kind of person that lets boredom run away with her. When darkness came, I asked if I could go to my grandmother. No, mum said. You are my child, you're staying here. I lied down in her bed after she had gone, curled up and sensed the strong smell of roses she always carried around.My mother collected flowers made of plastic, knickknacks, and bitterness. Mostly that last one.
All in all, I guess I have turned out okay, not necessarily in the positive sense of the word.
I live in the moment so to speak, it can't be healthy. Imagine having mums total absence from life and psychotic look sometimes. I actually wouldn't mind. Everywhere around me there seems to be people who doesn't think about anything. Everywhere there are smiles, not necessarily with joy, but I find it appealing. There is something precious about it, something powerful with the fact that someone can come up with a smile out of anything. I can't do it, I'm not emotionally capable. Something's taking up space in my head, I have no room for happiness or sorrow.
Looking out the café window, I see people passing by. Well, I don't actually see them. Human beings are something that just float around me, passes me by. Less complicated creatures are hard to find. For a long time I had a dream about writing a study about our development to homo sapiens, and our lack of intelligence and ability to act.
But of course, that was impossible. I mean, no one with a hint of stability would have bought that idea. Here I am, a boy in his twenties, slightly alcoholised, preaching about the lost intelligence of mankind. No, I don't think so.
I am a writer, or an artist you name it, but I guess you have already figured that out by now. It isn't something I have chosen to be, it just came to me. When I was a teenager, the thought of the whole world being a created picture with only one intention, that being deprive us of our free mind, pushed it selves on. Everything designed so that we could not see it, live on in a fake lie, that is the way it's supposed to be. Mum was one of these naive souls who couldn't see the clues placed right in front of her porcelain face. But I refused to be a part of it. I would not sell myself to a hallucination of proclaimed happiness. So I packed my few belongings, kissed my naive mother on the cheek there she sat with bitterness in her lap, and walked out the door.
It was a feeling of complexity, I hated the blasphemed lie, also called life, strong, but yet I didn't want to leave it. You see, I had almost started to believe the lie myself.
So here I am. I have realized that there is no use, or possible, to escape from the lie. But it doesn't mean that I have to participate in it.
The only person in my life who I really loved, except my grandmother, was my brother. He was taken from mum in early age, he never had time to fall for the lie. He was so deep and smart that I woke up, realized that this requires attention. He touched something deep inside my own nerve system.
But when you have discovered the lie, have found the clues, you can no longer live in peace. One day I got a call. My brother had been found in a public toilet, of the dirty kind, with his wrists cut over. It sounds like a real cliché, but that phone call turned my whole world upside down. With that phone call followed the lie I had been running from since a was a kid. My mothers weak spirit who wasn't made for living was suddenly surrounding me. Call me cynical, call me cold, but I couldn't stand it, turned her down without remorse there she stood in my door, lecturing me in "keeping together when things get rough". But how could I bare her manic grief when I was blown apart inside from my own?
Except from my narrow minded neighbours, I have no friends. As the years have gone by I have realized that it is probably my own fault. I shut out other people like oil shut out water. From my point of view I am a modest, egocentric, variable unicorn who has more or less neutral ways of seeing things. I want peace on earth and in heaven, at the same time I know that will never happen. I am a regular backstabber of Christ, but I also like to believe that there is something higher than us intellectually poor individuals, walking around on two legs.
Lately, I have been feeling strangely paralyzed. But is has come to my suspicion that there is something going on in the back of my head, and frankly, I don't need to know the details.
There is a picture of my dear brother. I can feel the bitter taste of guilt, consciousness spits on me. I want to bang my head through the wall, hear the sound of bones breaking. I get a desire to put the lights out, both the inner and outer. Still, dreams of his black hair haunts me at night. Fresh in mind, I have the dream where he just disappears in a hallucination of colour and morbid patterns. Leaves a jar with his eyes vide open in fear. I want to free him, but there is no use. Fear and broken will locked up in a glass jar.
When I thought madness was only a wink away, I met the people dressed in black. Captured by the claws of anxiety I didn't question anything, chose to believe whatever this cult told me. Back was the child laying in mothers bed, with the smell of roses in his nose. The guilt, the emptiness taking up all the space in my head, I must have been the perfect victim for a brainwash. They never did something of criminal sort, I guess burning churches was below their dignity. Experimenting with certain narcotic drugs was the closest the got. With me starring the boy who had been dramatically forced out of his surrounding imaginary world, I wasn't hard to ask. You are hallucinating, said the preacher man in black after I had swallowed the white drug. It felt like being suffocated and having to much air at once. The preacher man held up a mirror, pointed out that if I was suffocating I would be turning blue. Half of me could see his point, the other half could not see anything at all. The next morning I packed my few belongings and left, just like I had left my mother.
After my meeting with the preacher man, something has changed. The child in the rose bed has never let go. The feeling of total failure tears me like a genetically insane beast created by my own self-conscious. It feeds on my sorrow for the loss of my own flesh and blood.
The last time we met, he said behind his dark, almost devilish black hair; there is no one like you. I am already one to much, I replied.
Short story by Evelyn
Read 842 times
Written on 2006-08-07 at 22:42
Tags Anxiety
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
binesh |
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Zachary P. B. |
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by EvelynLatest textsMourning palaceMy friend of misery A tale begun Without visible sign War nerve |
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