Stranded - A Work of Pure Fiction
It’s an over-empowering feeling – it starts from your chest. It hurts more after every single heartbeat. You feel heavy, and full. Full of potential, and desires, and wishes, and hopes. You can’t handle it. Your head intrudes, attempting to make logical sense of the situation. But it’s all too strong, and the feeling slowly creeps up on your arms and for just one second, one moment, you feel your fingers tingling with expectations. All that pent up anger and sadness and mere melancholy is concentrated in your hands, and if you could just, just a little bit, just for a second, for a moment just let it all go, and liberate it and scream and… cut.
But, no, no, no – what life is that to lead? Zealous emotions, cowardly expectations, loving dispositions thrown out the window? Give me more, life, give me more. I outstretch my arms here, and beg You, Essence above, to just give it to me: all that I want, just give it to me. On my knees I proclaim that I am done, effectively, concretely over with all of this. Give up – misfortunes asides, I give up. I lost. The end, finito, that’s it. We’re over.
…. But now I need the promise of something greater arriving upon completion to be fulfilled. All this or, rather, that… for nothing?
Fragmented and destroyed desires, with dogged nights, lacking passion and meaning … I need retribution. You promised retribution – I thought there would be retribution? If not for it, then what else? What does it all come down to? Mere succession of apparently meaningless images, all leading to something grand. A lie! Accustomed from the start to futile expressions, improbable although desirable futures – I should have known, shouldn’t have I?
You warned me, yet I’m still waiting for that never-arriving sullen ending. That passion that I so ardently adored about myself, that’s the motherfuker that tricked me. Passion leading to love leading to belief leading to hope – leading to pointless, inexistent hope.
Yes, I should have known, but what was all this if not the manifestation, the parading of anticipation and faith for something better? Because that’s what it is, isn’t it what you said? All this leading to ultimate deification and beautification? Oh, now I know, don’t listen to strangers. They’re out to get you. But what is it from me that you wanted? A mere spectacle for your amusement, from up there up above? A puppet for your mind fucking entertainment? And did I make you laugh? Did I do it all, all that you hoped, and did you laugh? Cacchinate? Did you open your mouth, squeeze your eyes shut to block the tears, turned towards your own above and laugh? Really, laugh?
Because, oh the funniness of all of it from down here is enough to make my boisterous laugh come out – me living, you laughing. Me fighting for ultimate salvation, and you leading me astray. Me thinking that the road unpaved would lead to serenity – and only now realizing that it was all a misunderstanding? A machination? A game? A lie, maybe?
Well, that’s it. Next time will be better. Is there a next time? Is the promise of eternal peace actually one of perpetual life? Oh soul of mine – will I be seeing you through different eyes? Will you continue your torturous traveling, your itinerant wandering across all of this, into other realms? Will Your amusement turn into a perennial one, visualizing me through those exact eyes into my new ones? Reincarnation as a means to live just below the powerful. And will I be aware of it all? Will this stay with me as the me changes? And does the me actually change? Or will I be the same, pondering about existence, not replacing any thoughts but just the brain neurons that fire them? Will I continue to exist in this existence of gloomy death?
Answer me, or is that not what I deserve? Does your pity not arrive at these low levels of need? Is your cruelty so powerful as to leave me here wondering about the next while still clearly dissatisfied with the mournful present?
Answer me, or is that not what I deserve? Are you even there, or does my eternal misfortune include my fabrication of you? You’re not there, are you? All my life lived following your word, yet you don’t exist, and will not answer me.
Answer me, you imaginary creature, where is it that I will be going? Will it be lived, or seen, or heard – will it exist like this painfully excruciating agony exists? Will I be feeling it as much as I feel this moment in time (what is time?) right now?
And, tell me, will torment end? My heart says I hope, the mind says it’s coming again! Don’t fall for it you fool!, and my bleeding palms look above and ask why.
