Post by Defty on Nov 10, 2023 16:55:27 GMT -5
reoccurring vision
I have this reoccurring vision. It mostly happens while I’m at work.
I’ll be standing there in that musty alleyway, restocking our storage trailer with pipes.
The sun is blazing down on me, my face caked with dirt and grime.
And then I hear a shimmering sound, accompanied by a blue light that emanates from behind me.
When I turn, I see a vortex of some sort, and people are exiting from it; faces, from my past. They’re younger than me, much younger. 10 years old, 12 at most. The last they saw me, I was just as young. So now, they’re masking their horror at what I’ve become: a young man teetering on the brink of adulthood. Just one more year and you can drop the “teen” off my age. My frame is small; my stance, one of defeat. And my eyes stay sunken, hollow.
God, I need to shave.
I suddenly feel embarrassed at what’s become of me.
They group in a semi-circle around me, all 7 of them; telling me there’s something they need help with, back in that world I left all those years ago.
A world without responsibilities, or expectations. Without consequence.
Goldfish. A place I carefully curated.
And suddenly, I feel my whole body grow warm at the idea. To return home, with my friends who I haven’t seen in years. To slip back into the shoes of who I truly am, who I’ve never changed from.
I’ve never changed.
I’ve just hidden it from those who control me. I am still that young boy from back then— only, I’m in a body subject to time’s unforgiving hand.
The tears spill from my eyes.
“I remember you all,” I sigh. The years of suppressed memories come flooding back. How could I ever forget? Each of their names are permanently emblazoned on my brain.
“We know,” they say. “We know.” And they crowd around me, hugging me— these ghosts from my past who are nearly half my height now.
My mind ignores all of the important questions: How are they here? How is this possible? Only my heart pays attention.
One of them takes my hand, starts guiding me to the portal. “Come, Night,” she says.
I follow, eager to escape this place. I’ve been stranded here far too long. “Please, take me home,” I urge, scared that something will interrupt my exit.
And it does. The sound of a door, swinging open behind us. All of our heads turn ‘round.
My boss is standing there.
“You alright?” he asks.
My throat immediately reverts to muscle memory. “Yup,” it pushes out. “I’m just fine.” But those aren’t my words; that isn’t me.
“Okay, just checking.” He closes the door.
And when I turn back, my friends are gone. And it’s just me, alone in that alley, pipe still in hand.
Reality whispers a verse in my ear. Goldfish was an imaginative figment of your greatest wishes. It never existed.
And no one’s coming.
The breeze blows ‘way my tears and I return to work.
***
circus freak
Just for a day, I’ve decided to take a break from my pixelated dreams and actually do something— something wholesome in the world of reality. I’m going to a circus with a couple of “friends” who, really, know nothing about me.
The line’s all the way out here, in the grassy fields where people have parked their cars. I’ve got my ticket gripped in hand as everyone mills towards the tent, far off in the distance. The sun is brighter than I ever remember it being. Perhaps it’s welcoming me, after not having seen me for so long. I’ve been holed up in my home since… well, I can’t remember when it all began.
But I’m feeling happy, choosing to come here. Genuinely happy.
Finally, we reach the entrance. I follow in after those I’ve come with and take my seat between them. They’re whispering something to me, probably babbling excitedly about the performance soon to come on. But it’s all passing through one ear and out the other. I just nod until I’m indistinguishable from a bobble head.
The lights dim and save me from having to respond. The show begins.
The many colorful characters parade out onto the stage. I think I can finally unwind and enjoy the scene when a sudden chorus of trumpets jolt me upright. They’re too loud, too shrill.
A spotlight passes over the crowd and inevitably flashes over my face, leaving me blinded. It lingers on me longer than anyone else. At the same time, I hear an announcer’s voice start to blare out from unseen speakers. Somehow, he manages to overtake the din of the trumpets even, and it’s making my ears bleed.
Is that my name he’s calling?
I pray—to whom?—for it all to leave me, and eventually, it does; the light pulls away until it comes to rest on a roaring beast far down below. He rears up and claws at the bars that contain him, and everyone’s ecstatic. They roar louder than the brute himself.
I’m feeling nauseous, though.
That animal in that cage… reminds me of myself, in so many ways. I, too, cannot escape the eyes of everyone wishing me to perform. They point and critique, and want to see me execute what I’ve been trained to do. I have no choice! I yell in my thick skull.
There’s a deep yearning in me to free that poor creature down there. But I cannot, any more than I can free myself.
I can’t bear to watch anymore, so I shut my eyes tightly. But in my mind, I cannot escape the hideously contorted faces that the clowns put on for show. Their laughter and energy is so ridiculously fabricated, it’s unnerving. I’m familiar with that act, too.
All around me, people laugh and show off their beaming smiles. Parents bounce their children on their laps to the tune of fanfare. They’re loving it.
But I am not laughing. No, I am not laughing. No one can see me, sitting here in the dark, being jostled by the arms that rhythmically clap on both sides of me.
They cannot see the tears streaming down my cheeks, or the bile rising in my throat.
I’m more of a freak than any these people have paid to see.
I don’t want to be here, anymore. I want to go home, and retreat into the world I’ve become so familiar with.
I want to escape the sun and become Night again.
***
outskirts
So no one wants to hear it then.
Why do I try?
People flee before I even arrive.
They close their garage in a hurry when they see my attire.
My golden cloak, much too big on me. Its sheen reflects all the things they don’t want to see in themselves. But how can they see what’s in me? They assume, like they always do.
They have no pity on a young boy, cleaner and better kept than most youth. But only externally.
Poised at the tender age of ten. Poised, or poisoned?
They think I’m mindless. Soulless. Brainwashed.
Like the hands on a clock, moving without emotion.
Tick. Tock.
Tick.
I’m ticked. If I were brainwashed, could I feel that emotion?
The Days send me out here, to map these dirt roads.
I must meet my quota of the converted. Make up for my “mistakes.” Or else I’m cuffed, scourged, by them.
Who are they, the Days?
They’re those who lord it over me, their right to rule. The ones who dress me up, snip my hair; make sure I’ve practiced my presentations to the people.
The people. Why do we call them that, if they act nothing like it? Ignorant droves of cattle, they are; most by choice.
They see my victimized eyes but make no attempts to help me. They are as pathetic as those who send me to them. I take neither side.
I approach a man’s yard. He’s sitting in his lawn chair. He is of the people.
I smile forcefully. I smile so hard, my teeth nearly shatter.
He glances at the tome in my hand. The manual of Dawning. He sneers.
“Don’t,” he shouts. “Don’t bring that here!”
I keep smiling. It’s what I’ve been trained to do. To smile when insulted.
He lifts himself off his lawn chair, races towards me. Gets up in my face, spit flying.
He’s speaking incoherently, but I’m sure there are curses mixed into his concoction of words.
I’m honestly flattered to have someone expend so much energy on me. Most just ignore my presence.
Curious man.
Does he really think I want to be here?
Does he imagine I have no pain inside?
I am not like most Days.
For once, my smile fades. My brows furrow, and my frown is like the curvature of a rainbow, without the color.
We are at the end of a cul-de-sac, so no one can see us here.
My yellow eyes grow black at the realization. Blacker than the night.
The man stops yelling.
And I can see it on his face. He’s scared. He’s scared at this sudden change in me.
I came to share news of a fake storm. But I carry a real one inside of me— constantly.
Why don’t I lift my cloak, and show this man who I really am?
Something happens just then; I’m not sure what. A flash of darkness?
But when I leave the man’s yard, there’s no one out front anymore.
And I’m smiling again. Genuinely, this time.
I have this reoccurring vision. It mostly happens while I’m at work.
I’ll be standing there in that musty alleyway, restocking our storage trailer with pipes.
The sun is blazing down on me, my face caked with dirt and grime.
And then I hear a shimmering sound, accompanied by a blue light that emanates from behind me.
When I turn, I see a vortex of some sort, and people are exiting from it; faces, from my past. They’re younger than me, much younger. 10 years old, 12 at most. The last they saw me, I was just as young. So now, they’re masking their horror at what I’ve become: a young man teetering on the brink of adulthood. Just one more year and you can drop the “teen” off my age. My frame is small; my stance, one of defeat. And my eyes stay sunken, hollow.
God, I need to shave.
I suddenly feel embarrassed at what’s become of me.
They group in a semi-circle around me, all 7 of them; telling me there’s something they need help with, back in that world I left all those years ago.
A world without responsibilities, or expectations. Without consequence.
Goldfish. A place I carefully curated.
And suddenly, I feel my whole body grow warm at the idea. To return home, with my friends who I haven’t seen in years. To slip back into the shoes of who I truly am, who I’ve never changed from.
I’ve never changed.
I’ve just hidden it from those who control me. I am still that young boy from back then— only, I’m in a body subject to time’s unforgiving hand.
The tears spill from my eyes.
“I remember you all,” I sigh. The years of suppressed memories come flooding back. How could I ever forget? Each of their names are permanently emblazoned on my brain.
“We know,” they say. “We know.” And they crowd around me, hugging me— these ghosts from my past who are nearly half my height now.
My mind ignores all of the important questions: How are they here? How is this possible? Only my heart pays attention.
One of them takes my hand, starts guiding me to the portal. “Come, Night,” she says.
I follow, eager to escape this place. I’ve been stranded here far too long. “Please, take me home,” I urge, scared that something will interrupt my exit.
And it does. The sound of a door, swinging open behind us. All of our heads turn ‘round.
My boss is standing there.
“You alright?” he asks.
My throat immediately reverts to muscle memory. “Yup,” it pushes out. “I’m just fine.” But those aren’t my words; that isn’t me.
“Okay, just checking.” He closes the door.
And when I turn back, my friends are gone. And it’s just me, alone in that alley, pipe still in hand.
Reality whispers a verse in my ear. Goldfish was an imaginative figment of your greatest wishes. It never existed.
And no one’s coming.
The breeze blows ‘way my tears and I return to work.
***
circus freak
Just for a day, I’ve decided to take a break from my pixelated dreams and actually do something— something wholesome in the world of reality. I’m going to a circus with a couple of “friends” who, really, know nothing about me.
The line’s all the way out here, in the grassy fields where people have parked their cars. I’ve got my ticket gripped in hand as everyone mills towards the tent, far off in the distance. The sun is brighter than I ever remember it being. Perhaps it’s welcoming me, after not having seen me for so long. I’ve been holed up in my home since… well, I can’t remember when it all began.
But I’m feeling happy, choosing to come here. Genuinely happy.
Finally, we reach the entrance. I follow in after those I’ve come with and take my seat between them. They’re whispering something to me, probably babbling excitedly about the performance soon to come on. But it’s all passing through one ear and out the other. I just nod until I’m indistinguishable from a bobble head.
The lights dim and save me from having to respond. The show begins.
The many colorful characters parade out onto the stage. I think I can finally unwind and enjoy the scene when a sudden chorus of trumpets jolt me upright. They’re too loud, too shrill.
A spotlight passes over the crowd and inevitably flashes over my face, leaving me blinded. It lingers on me longer than anyone else. At the same time, I hear an announcer’s voice start to blare out from unseen speakers. Somehow, he manages to overtake the din of the trumpets even, and it’s making my ears bleed.
Is that my name he’s calling?
I pray—to whom?—for it all to leave me, and eventually, it does; the light pulls away until it comes to rest on a roaring beast far down below. He rears up and claws at the bars that contain him, and everyone’s ecstatic. They roar louder than the brute himself.
I’m feeling nauseous, though.
That animal in that cage… reminds me of myself, in so many ways. I, too, cannot escape the eyes of everyone wishing me to perform. They point and critique, and want to see me execute what I’ve been trained to do. I have no choice! I yell in my thick skull.
There’s a deep yearning in me to free that poor creature down there. But I cannot, any more than I can free myself.
I can’t bear to watch anymore, so I shut my eyes tightly. But in my mind, I cannot escape the hideously contorted faces that the clowns put on for show. Their laughter and energy is so ridiculously fabricated, it’s unnerving. I’m familiar with that act, too.
All around me, people laugh and show off their beaming smiles. Parents bounce their children on their laps to the tune of fanfare. They’re loving it.
But I am not laughing. No, I am not laughing. No one can see me, sitting here in the dark, being jostled by the arms that rhythmically clap on both sides of me.
They cannot see the tears streaming down my cheeks, or the bile rising in my throat.
I’m more of a freak than any these people have paid to see.
I don’t want to be here, anymore. I want to go home, and retreat into the world I’ve become so familiar with.
I want to escape the sun and become Night again.
***
outskirts
So no one wants to hear it then.
Why do I try?
People flee before I even arrive.
They close their garage in a hurry when they see my attire.
My golden cloak, much too big on me. Its sheen reflects all the things they don’t want to see in themselves. But how can they see what’s in me? They assume, like they always do.
They have no pity on a young boy, cleaner and better kept than most youth. But only externally.
Poised at the tender age of ten. Poised, or poisoned?
They think I’m mindless. Soulless. Brainwashed.
Like the hands on a clock, moving without emotion.
Tick. Tock.
Tick.
I’m ticked. If I were brainwashed, could I feel that emotion?
The Days send me out here, to map these dirt roads.
I must meet my quota of the converted. Make up for my “mistakes.” Or else I’m cuffed, scourged, by them.
Who are they, the Days?
They’re those who lord it over me, their right to rule. The ones who dress me up, snip my hair; make sure I’ve practiced my presentations to the people.
The people. Why do we call them that, if they act nothing like it? Ignorant droves of cattle, they are; most by choice.
They see my victimized eyes but make no attempts to help me. They are as pathetic as those who send me to them. I take neither side.
I approach a man’s yard. He’s sitting in his lawn chair. He is of the people.
I smile forcefully. I smile so hard, my teeth nearly shatter.
He glances at the tome in my hand. The manual of Dawning. He sneers.
“Don’t,” he shouts. “Don’t bring that here!”
I keep smiling. It’s what I’ve been trained to do. To smile when insulted.
He lifts himself off his lawn chair, races towards me. Gets up in my face, spit flying.
He’s speaking incoherently, but I’m sure there are curses mixed into his concoction of words.
I’m honestly flattered to have someone expend so much energy on me. Most just ignore my presence.
Curious man.
Does he really think I want to be here?
Does he imagine I have no pain inside?
I am not like most Days.
For once, my smile fades. My brows furrow, and my frown is like the curvature of a rainbow, without the color.
We are at the end of a cul-de-sac, so no one can see us here.
My yellow eyes grow black at the realization. Blacker than the night.
The man stops yelling.
And I can see it on his face. He’s scared. He’s scared at this sudden change in me.
I came to share news of a fake storm. But I carry a real one inside of me— constantly.
Why don’t I lift my cloak, and show this man who I really am?
Something happens just then; I’m not sure what. A flash of darkness?
But when I leave the man’s yard, there’s no one out front anymore.
And I’m smiling again. Genuinely, this time.
