Invitation to a hanging

“To think of our greatest anxiety as an insignificant event, not only in the life of the universe but also in the life of our own soul, is the beginning of wisdom.” Fernando Pessoa


It was April, at the thirteenth strike when I was finally able to see.  As I stood and began to walk through that tunnel appearing before me, I noticed everything felt different.  The air was warmer and thicker, the pictures on the wall were Shadowgrey and nothing else.  They were vast and encompassed my sight even as they exited my vision.  A mass display of confusion.   As I walked down that tunnel they began communicating to me in a way quite different than before, communicating without actually communicating.  In them I saw me, existing as I have done for so long.  There were words being released from behind the picture but they were barely audible.  They somehow took hold and fluttered just out of sight.

“You had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.”

The eye that followed me from somewhere now had no form.  The things that at one time were easy to hold, had a concrete existence and a real vibration of some sort. But they just became ideas here.  I had to continually touch myself just to prove I was still standing where I thought I was.  I knew my mom would be looking for me soon.  Maybe after she finished her fifth cup of coffee.  As I approached a mirror lit by the uncomfortable vastness of the tunnel and the Shadowgrey pieces bouncing of my eyes, nothing appeared before me.  I just wasn’t there.  I could feel what I thought I was.  I heard my breath, but according to the mirror, what I was feeling and hearing, just was not there.  It was then the suffocating walls began to surround him and he was enclosed in a damp dark room with only a blank journal opened to page one…

“For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.”

I have to hold this together somehow, please understand this…okay, but if I wasn’t here how could I possibly write of what I am.  Now I am trapped.  The pages open before me, calling me in barely a whisper.  I cover my ears but it is no use.  With pen in hand he writes-there once was a butterfly and it gave me life-but is that true, I think I had life before that, there was never this greyness-Suspended before my eyes is a life I thought I was leading, freedom i thought I had, words I thought I expressed.  But really, honestly I was trapped.  I knew I couldn’t go on like this.  I knew everything had to change.  But I was surrounded by eyes without sight, faces without emotion, words without breath-he knew one thing now, he knew his goal was to prove that he was alive but he needed to exit this book and he was beginning to think maybe he already travelled to deep.  The writer keeps writing and the shadow that was once attached to the wall grows dimmer.                                    I pinch myself to see if I’m still here and somewhere a ripple occurs

“s by George Orwell



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