arent we all just patterns in the same picture, a child with a green crayon waiting for his dad to come home, a boy on a sofa doodling while the man with his clipboard tries to save his sanity, a man lying on concrete scratching pictures between metal bars, a disgrace contained in padding creating patterns of us in his head screaming for his dad who never came back
He said he needed it to look more real. I guess I didn't realise how real he meant. I made so many suggestions. More pumpkins. More skeletons. More actors jumping out to scare the guests. But he didn't seem satisfied with that. I didn't realise, I just didn't realise what he had in mind. He wanted guests to be scared out of their wits, not realising the true horror of what they were actually seeing. He said they did it all the time in the movies. Americans do it all the time, he said. People see something scary and it's only later that they realise what they saw was real. How real? I asked. How real could we possibly make it? I feared he wanted to use the animals on the farm and I was prepared to report him. I went right to the phone, not realising he was near. Now I'm scaring them. The guests. They scream when they see me and then laugh at their "foolishness". It's not real, they'd tell themselves, just make-up. They saw my eyes moving. They saw my hands shaking. They saw the blood trickling down my head from the supposedly fake nails in the cross. I was a crucifixion. A laugh at our Lord, apparently. But I was in agony. Slowly I could feel reality slipping away. I pleaded with my eyes but no one took a second glance at me. They would know later. They would see the reports and they'd say, yeah, I saw her! I thought she looked real but I didn't think it was. I mean, how could it be? Who does that?
I once read that everything a writer jots down, somehow leads back to one single person. When the focus of my writing shifted from a monster, to a lover, then to myself, I really didn't understand this concept. After a few months of writing about countless things on end, I finally saw the strange connection. Although these stories and paragraphs and poems were all written for different people, they were ultimately written for a single person. Over the course of a lifetime, or even a few years, we often create people in our minds. These people that we create are all different, but every person has their very own. In every person's mind, lies a person created from all of the people they've ever loved; an idea of what they are supposed to be. This is the person we write for. I write for the person that broke my heart, but also the person who made it strong again. The reason I write these words is because I am writing for every person who ever meant anything to me. And I am writing for me because I see myself in the small cracks and pieces of the people I once so dearly loved. I write for my recovery and my past.
Remember the moment just after you've stumbled out of a waking dream. The odd realisation that the vivid reality you're in and the one you just left are like twin sisters dressing up looking at one other in a room full of mirrors; sounds excessive but it's true. Its never the dream itself that shocks you, its the awakening following the experience. The rude interruption of what may be just be a better existence; or it may be the much await exit from the harrowing haunting truths that usually lurks in some deep trench in your head, lunging when the moment is both ripe and unfortunate..for you! So the question now looms do we remember our dreams or do we remember to forget them?
The machines are fattening us up for the slaughter. I eat so much my skin aches. I eat so much I'm afraid to burp. I'm trying to rise to my feet, but my balance is wanky. I step left and wobble, I step right and wobble. One more strip of turkey, gobble gobble. I widen my stance. I rest against the post. My girth challenges me to re-learn how to handle myself. The machines are beating me. I'm far less mobile than I ought to be. The drones swoop in and offer me pecan pie with whip cream. I shouldn't, but I do. One small bite at a time and that pie is mine. It is a part of me. The machines send out their clones. They pour me creamy beverages with alcohol and caramel. I tell them no! But then they pour it over perfect ice in clinking glasses, and a good stiff creamy drink is just what I think I need. The machines are crushing me. I try to run to the forest, but can't run without hurting my knees. So I amble out through the cold November air, past the streets and through the trees. I see no machine, or treat, but it is too late for me. My spirit is weak. All that remains is hunger pangs.