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Is it better to live in a world of self delusions, then to face up to the reality of life?
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My eyes felt heavy this morning. Wandering through the vaguely lit apartment I found my way to the mirror and looked deeply at myself. ĎI canít see it,í I said aloud. Not knowing exactly what I meant, a short fragment of a dream maybe. I looked as though I was twenty-five, in spite of my youthful age. I was old enough to be an adult, but I still felt I had not learned the conditions necessary to truly declare myself as such.
As I had mentioned I havenít been sleeping. My eyes were blood shot again, the red chains extending outward in all directions from my dilated pupils. I looked like a heroin junky. If this was the condition I would meet the funeral jury in, then the powerful hammer of God would come down hard. A few people might even throw the good book at me, it happens more often then youíd expect.
There were some eye drops in the cabinet, which I applied. But when had I bought them? I knew they were their, but I hadnít remembered ever buying them. This has become so common lately that I no longer see it as an oddity; dementia, the only good side effect of insomnia. Now if only I could go to work and then forget all about it. Then, it would be like a lifetime vacation. Iíd be sixty before I knew it. Hell, I might even be dead!
A clink came to the door. It must be seven already. That mail man sure is an early bird; but today heís going to be the worm! Iíll catch him today! I soared over to the door and readied myself to open it. The damn mocking newspaper was stuck in the mail slot. Iíve told the landlady many times that I didnít want the paper; itís too depressing to read the news these days. She must have promised me ten times that she would take me off the list of recipients, with the same insincere smile. Why do I have so much faith in people?
I swung the door open! I got you, you slippery bastard; Iíll have you take me off your route today! But he was nowhere to be seen. How he is able to disappear in a split second is anyoneís guess. I hope they pay that guy a lot, heís got some talent. I donít know many people with the power to teleport; I mean not anyone at all. Or maybe he doesnít exist; I donít know. Iíve had this bad feeling that Iíve been going insane. If I catch him then maybe it would confirm that Iím not loosing it; but I probably am.
I walked back inside reluctantly, and picked up the paper as I passed, throwing it on my coffee table. I feel like Iíve forgotten something. It just started bothering me right now. Humph, oh damn, the prologue. I know, its right here under the newspaper, Iíll read it for you, then continue on with the story. Letís see, Prologue to Lonely Skies, right. Alright then, letís begin.
Chapter one, Prologue. I woke up to the same gray light in my dimply lit single room shit apartment as I do on any day, but today was different. The chill from the solitary and drafty window was more harsh than usual, and in the night I had lost my blanket, awaking in a cold sweat. I didnít even remember going to sleep. In fact I had not remembered going to sleep for two consecutive nights leading up to this day of anxiety.
Looking out my window I could see the sun begin to rise on the springís clear skies, the weather forecast was temperate, clear, and beautiful. Unlike literary works of fantasy, heaven rarely cries when it should. Weíve all been led to believe winter symbolizes death, and spring rebirth. But people die any time of the year, people like my mother, and today is her funeral. The skies are full of irony if you choose to hold fast to your beliefs in symbolism. And I ask you not to abandon your own perception, but only to realize that to a realist like me, the sky is full of nothing but air and space.
Heaven wouldnít cry for my mother, and I had not been able to shed a tear as well. From the time before I could remember I had never been able to cry. I was conditioned since childhood to realize my tears are only shed in vein. As I grew older I was haunted by night-terrors, and every night I would sleepwalk to my motherís door and awake there, my hand upon the door knob, only to go back to bed without turning it. I believe now that I secretly wanted her to comfort me; it was a part of my nature, in spite of the conditioning; in spite of my self reliant feeling of emptiness.
One night I turned the knob and I discovered then that her door was locked; her door was always locked. And it was because she feared me, though I loved her dearly. She and everyone I knew in my little Christian community had laid judgment upon me within their hearts from the time of my conception. Christianity teaches tolerance, but tolerance is not forgiveness of the heart. Tolerance is a burden; tolerance is an intentionally repressed feeling of disdain. And I was a burden upon my mother.
The same beliefs that made her fear me were the same beliefs that forced her to give birth to me, and these same beliefs were the barrier keeping me away from her love. If Christianity had not existed I might have had a chance at a mothers natural love, however I was born without the possibility. Or, as it might be, I may have been aborted, but I have been granted a fate worse than death, a fate of what the bible would call atonement for the Original Sin I carried within.
I always longed for her love, and tried to attain it with great fervor. I remember my first confession, which was supposed to absolve me of all my sins in the eyes of God. Returning home I felt happiness (if I am not mistaking the feeling) for the only time in my life. If my motherís beliefs had restrained her love from reaching me then surely she would have to love me now that her beliefs had cleansed me of my sins. However, she cried that night, and her eyes never lost their contempt for me. I could never atone for my sins. My fate was man made and set in stone. I was disillusioned, never would there be a reciprocation of love, and I would be lonely forever. Though I never truly stopped trying to win her approval I would never get another chance. Today, this fact would be confirmed and made truly permanent; adding to my emptiness.
Reiterating, this unjust cruelty is what the bible calls atonement. Life, I learned, was not fair; life was cruel and intentionally cynical. And worst of all I still couldnít cry, I couldnít even remember what it felt like. I only knew that crying was what people did too feel better when they where sad, and now I wanted to feel it more than ever as if it was a part of my nature, a nature I couldnít understand. The same nature that made me want for my mothers love. And now, that she is truly gone, and I have lost that forever, I should feel morose, but all I really could claim to feel was the same emptiness I always carried with me. Maybe I am not human after all.
And thatís the end of the end of the Prologue.
Iím feeling a little strange reading that for everyone. Is it the shame felt, from many eyes upon my sole as it bares all, and has bore much? No, itís only before my own eyes that I bring the repressed feelings and forgotten memories back to life. A thousand lashings on searing flesh, a lifetime of atonement will never make me worthy of forgiveness.
MomÖIím sorry. If only I had not been born, would you have lived longer? MomÖIt hurts too muchÖMomÖ
To be continuedÖ
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© 2006 Ether
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