The Imaginary Life Stories of My Subconscious

I'm fearful of the monster my mind has become. Of the empathy it lacks, of the emotion that has run dry. I'm fearful of how well it poses as something genuine and real, of how it takes on chameleon forms of those who are, only to hide nothing beneath its shallow surface but snow and sleet; the only force of reckoning being the hollow sense of self that avalanches forward everyday, lurching over rocks and trees of being and bliss that have long since stopped inspiring and growing. The mind is frozen solid, landlocked by icy barriers that no longer allow passage in or out of a suspended center port. 

And with outside influence shrouded by these avalanches, the mind turns inward and blank. And as the ice thickens evermore, the potential energy of the heart is lessened, subtracted. Requiring from it an ever-growing and ever-increasing demand of force and emotive-kinetic energy to shatter those walls so ice-cold and mammothonian.

A behemoth moves beneath shifting sands, coursing passion through dried and dreary veins.

A motionless landscape starts to shudder, as the ghostly muse pierces through the dunes.

Lifeblood spills out from the desert's surface; pulsing red coagulates sun-burnt dirt.

Sleeping giants do not die in the subconscious. They only lie in wait until the alarm bell of life reawakens the spirit. But do not give passage to the noise, for the awakening is not always the soul's salvation. And giants, mighty as they are, can sink the desert just as they can raise it up.

PART II I survive as I always do. 

By lying completely still.

In the close distance through the blackness I hear the snapping of bones and a cool wet sopping sound. I breathe exclusively through my mouth and the air tastes of metal and mold. It's familiar by now but I still want to retch. Over my back I feel the weight of another person lying completely motionless, who I can only guess is Splice, and I struggle to find breath with each intake of air beneath him. My cheek lies flat against the cold concrete, and before me I still see nothing but shadowless dark. The sound of wet crunching is close to my eyes, I can hear that much, but the motions that I guess are just feet ahead are veiled invisible. My fingers reel back instinctually for only moment as a warm liquid creeps around them. At first I think I'm dead, and that I've been found, but as the liquid travels onward along my fingers and up to my palm, I realize this isn't the Residual's touch. It's too slow, too constant to be a predator. The sound of feasting goes on and my sleeve makes contact with the advancing wetness, absorbing it up and dousing my forearm. Its warmth is appreciated and makes my stomach turn all at once. 

The relentless march continues on and the flood puddles slow around my cheek. My breath grows haggard at this, and I'm at the verge of releasing a groan. As I shut my eyes tight to block everything out, a sharp bone-chilling crack snaps forth, echoing through the corridors, and blood splatters across my face and parted lips.

When the Residual stops eating, I do not immediately notice it. The sound of consumption comes to a halt, but I do not hear it retreat into the infinite blackness that surrounds me. I wait motionless upon cold concrete with dry blood caked across my face and torso for some time, feeling the Residual by my side, its persistent odor hanging heavy in the air. For a long while, I can feel its presence hovering over me, listening. 

And listening.

Eventually the sour taste leaves my mouth and the scent fades. I move my hand quietly through the black to tap twice in quick succession upon the body laying over me, and it stirs softly in response.

The way the body above me dismounts me in near total silence confirms that it had been Splice to lay himself over me. We waste no time speaking to one another or searching for Adineen. Instead we grope the walls of the corridor through the darkness, blind and disoriented. Our awkward movements are laborious and quiet, but I can feel Splice on the other side of the corridor shivering beneath his fear, almost as if to mirror my own demeanor. As we search along the walls for doors unbarred I feel a separation spread out between us as time rages forward and blackness persists.  Close in proximity but far off and away in the darkness, I know both of us search the walls in a slow-moving panic with hopes that the other is the one to slip or bang against some wayward pot or hanging metal construct. This is further confirmed when my bare foot steps into the remains of Chon with a loud squelch. I freeze in place and Splice couldn't be quieter. He's still there though, waiting for some far off Residual to hear my noise from corridors away and come slithering again through the blackness to wrap me up and feed. It never comes though, and we continue our search. In front of the body at my feet I find a door that gives and I signal to Splice by clicking my tongue softly. Within a second he is at my back and we enter into the room together.

With one final heave, we finish pushing the last of our barricade into place and I allow myself to fall with my back against a wall with a sigh relief. For now we're safe, and my mind is free to return to me. I peer through the darkness and can see the vague outline of Splice laid out on the floor. Obedient, he turns over to the reset as soon as it occurs and will be up to stir me into wakefulness the moment our Facility comes back to life.

Sleep, as much as I anticipate its arrival, does not come as easy to me. My mind, cleared of fear and panic, has the chance now to settle and soon falls upon Adineen and Chon. Chon who I kicked in the back into a crashing chaos that brought that Residual down on him and Adineen who I never caught sight of during the attack. Adineen, who would release a lustful coo as I would bite into her collarbone while she rubbed the coarse skin of her palms up and down against my nakedness in the dark of resets much like this one. I remember how the motion had been awkward beneath the rough fabric that covered my lower half, but even still it made my breath waver, and I remember my attempts to return the favor. As I begin my floating descent into slumber, my mind centers on her face, and I feel a longing for her presence. Splice's steady breathing from the other side of the room comforts me and, through a concentrated effort to stave off the thoughts of him rubbing her as she has rubbed me, I am coerced into sleep.

After Splice's violent shakes to my shoulder.

After my eyes open to the return of red monochrome.

After I shed away the crackling shell of dried blood caked over my arm and face. 

After we share Splice's smoked salmon susty vial.

After I give him his diary to jot his thoughts in as scribbles.

After I write my own down. 

After all this I take his diary and mine, replace them in my bag for safekeeping. 

After we prepare to continue our venture down the northern traverse. 

I don't exactly feel rested. Quietly we remove the barricade from the door piece by piece and soon after that I am crouched to the side of its threshold with my palm gripped wet and tight around the handle just a bit above my head. The door moans slightly as I pull it open and my eyes survey the red for movement. The body I see has been moved to the center of the corridor and no longer lays pushed up against the wall. Its face is turned away from me and though it is far from intact, the pieces of it that do remain are much more slender than I remember Chon being. I step tenderly through the crack of the door and move towards the body. The hair is chopped short like all the rest of ours, but through the crimson light draped over the corridor, and the blood that stains it, I cannot discern if it is Chon's brown or Adineen's blonde. The skull from this position is odd and misshapen as well. I stare for a long time at the back of the mysterious head before Splice tugs at my wrist to press on.

I ask him what happened to Adineen during the reset, too afraid to grab the chin of the skull below me and turn its eyes towards me.

"You kicked her down," he responds plainly, neither scared or angry or bothered by the fact. As if incapable of passing judgement.

"And Chon?"

"He run away."

I say nothing and leave the body there. I do not turn the face over to look into its eyes.

We find Chon dead and mangled up the way not far from where we spent the reset, confirming it had indeed been Adineen whose face I had refused to look upon. Adineen's blood that caked over on my face and arm while we slept through the reset. Adineen who I kicked in the back into the long teeth and sharpened claws of a Residual.  

We continue walking.

Eventually the red and black fades, and the northern traverse is lit by a softer, pale blue light. Things become less disorienting, and the regular grays of concrete and browns of aging metal return to my vision.

I ask Splice if the last expedition going this way made it far enough for the lights to change back to normal. He tells me that he doesn't understand the question.

We continue forward, but these hallways and corridors have been picked clean as well. The sleep from the reset and more natural color scheme helps me keep my head as I fall into the monotonous labor of walking and checking rooms. The Facility takes us ever deeper into its innards, turning us through itself over and over again pushing us up and down stairs for a long time. We finish Splice's other susty vial, and we're on the verge of having to eat one of mine. Both of our stomachs are growling, and soon I'll have to decide if I am to keep the whole of these last two vials to myself, refusing to return the favor of portioning out my supplies to him.

He asks me if we can eat yet, and I tell him that we must wait awhile longer. I decide that the next time he makes the request I'll tell him that we have already eaten. The Caretakers use this lie often on us to save supplies; something I only put together myself after recording feeding times between resets. Splice will believe me.

I am walking a safe distance behind him, the end of an open vial placed discreetly at my lips.

Splice's breathing is becoming labored as dehydration begins to settle in, and I am worried about Residuals hearing his stumbling through the corridors and finding us. As I increase the distance between us for my own safety, I see Splice lift his head in interest towards something in the distance for a moment before standing still. I freeze as well. 

He stands there dull and silent, his breathing beginning to wane. I look past his body and off towards the far end of the long corridor and scan for movement. I see nothing aside from an odd white light in the distance.

Time passes more slowly or we're standing there motionless for a very long time.

Finally I whisper his name. In response he explodes forward in a full sprint and instinctively I give chase.

Within an instant I am standing over Splice, who is sitting on the floor, happily sucking at a susty vial he must have spotted from far off. I watch as he gulps it down to exactly half before turning around and passing the rest to me. I'm not hungry, but I finish it off anyway. Once finished, the two of us press on down the long corridor finding more vials and supplies to take back to the Caretakers. The rooms are more bare than usual, and I worry that we may not find enough items to fill up both of our bags. I am thankful to be wrong. As we near the light at the end of the corridor, the rooms become more and more untouched and do not seem to be pilfered as the ones from before. I think aloud that this must have been as far as the last expedition down the northern traverse had gone before coming back to our inner-corridors.   Splice responds, telling me that the last expedition never returned to the inner-corridors.

"Do you know how many expeditions they've sent since the last that went down this northern traverse did return?"

He repeats that the last expedition never returned to the inner-corridors, and I give up on trying to get anymore information out of him. Instead, I turn my eyes outward towards the far end of the corridor and try to make sense of the white light at the end. It's thin, I see, vertical and thin. And also very bright amidst the dim pale blue lights that run along the low ceiling above us. Walking forward, ignoring the rooms we've yet to strip of their supplies, the light grows larger and more intense. From behind me, I hear Splice declare that his bag is full and that we should go back home.  

Temptation is a strong force, and you shouldn't ignore its existence--denying that it's there tainting you is nothing more than purposefully turning a blind eye to your real wants--and throwing a veil over your desires doesn't put them to sleep or calm them down. It enrages and confuses them, setting them off on a path that you won't be able to divert them from. Desire retains a strong influence over you, yes, but desire left alone to operate in the back of your head unguided by your own will is wild. Unwieldy.

Perhaps I'm aware of this as I continue taking steps forward against Splice's protests. Perhaps not. My feet move me forward against my will, and I slap Splice away at his wary attempts to pull me back. He tells me our bags are full and we have to return to the inner-corridors. I wonder if he can see the light ahead.

And I mean truly see it. --Make it out in the distance not just for what it is, but for what it may be. This Facility may not be the labyrinth of infinity I've imagined it to be. And my haunted dreams may be memories from a past after all.

I'm standing at arms reach away from the chipping green paint that lays weathered over the closed double doors composed of heavy metal. Aged since resets from far before my time, the two slabs of tired steel stand tall over me--menacing and silent. Between the doors, that sliver of light persists, deafening in its brightness. I try my best not to look directly into it, as doing so leaves me disoriented and unable to make out the details of the corridor.

I feel possessed now, hypnotized, and Splice shouts a loud protest as my hands lay over the doors, each metal slab flanking the slivered light. 

The Facility breathes silently in response, and I can feel it taking a moment to find us.

And so it does.

The shout is soon followed by a series of clashing metals and clattering Facility supplies being tossed about from far far down the other end of the corridor. I turn my head only enough to catch through my eye's corner the sight of them. Residuals. More that I can count. Their slender bodies slithering up along the corridor's concrete floor like a rushing of water, moving through one another like threads passing through a basket. The sight of it makes me feel like lead, and I see Splice in the foreground frozen in time, his eyes pierced with terror, hoping that the oncoming wave will wash over and past him like warm bathwater. I turn back towards the doors and know what's on the other side. Fearful anticipation creeps up from my gut and I start to push. First softly; then, as the metal door squeals in defiance, harder. I dig my bare feet deep into the concrete, my toes spreading apart as I try to grab hold of some sort of traction from below. I can hear the breathing from Splice's nose begin to increase in pace and volume as the odor starts to push down on us. 

And still I push.

I say something to Splice along the lines of finding a barricade to lock himself away within.

I can feel the skin on the tips of my toes begin to tear, and a rancid taste fills my mouth. I can feel trickling at my back and I start to scream. I replant my feet and give one final heave of my body into the sliver between the two doors. A metal screeching fills my ears and I cannot tell if I am dead. The doors open and I am purged by a blinding light.

Outside there is nothing but white, and I turn back and over and left and right as I try to search through the searing flashes before me to find my vision. The odor persists now, but an odd draft takes it and brings it back in some sort of cyclical movement. My eyes, no matter how much I try to command them to open, burn at any attempt. I roll about the uneven surface below, covering myself in thick dust as panic settles in. The ground out here is warm, and I try my best to steady my breathing and hear my surroundings. As I finally find calm and my writhing comes to a stop, I wonder why the Residuals haven't wrapped themselves around me. 

I can make them out not far from me. Hear their bodies twisting and turning over and through each other like wet rubber. Their closeness makes me freeze, and I lie completely still, fearful of rolling myself into their nest. Very slowly my vision begins to make its return, and I begin to parse through the whiteness to make out shapes. 

First, on the ground before me, brown shrubs and orange stones.

Then, further out, an immense wall of blackness towering high above me.

I regain my footing and rise to my feet, which look up to me from the dusty ground worn and torn against the bright light.

I stare in silence at the black wall for some time before I can make out what it is.

As the whiteness dies down and I'm able to keep my eyes open, the blackness stops staring back and I'm able to discern the meaning of the wall that stands ahead. 

The Facility, I realize, as I move my head from left to right, watching its walls stretch both ways for distances much further than I would ever care to venture. I take a few steps back looking upon the impossible black box dropped here in the middle of some windy dustscape and wonder how far I now stand from the inner-corridors.

The green doors remain open as well. Within, sitting behind the edge of where the bright light of this outside can reach past its threshold and into the Facility, I can see shining shadows moving like snakes, their long rows of silver teeth flashing glares at me from moment to moment. I look past the heap of Residuals in hopes to catch a glimpse or sign of Splice, but all I see is blackness. I remove his diary from my bag and place it in the dirt for him before I turn around to see what I already know is there.

There's a memory saved away, deep within the sprawling complex that is my mind. A memory or maybe a dream, I can't be sure which, but I can hear it like a far off echo begging me to listen. 

In it I'm looking over the Landscape. Seeing its true scope. 

Boundless. 

Never-ending. 

Horrific. 

The fields that surround our Facility on all sides for endless distances.

I remember those four-legged beasts with shadows so large. Hulking shoulders lined with muscles striations and thick sheets of desert-bronze fur rolling atop their galloping backs. I remember their fangs big as men snarling from behind the thick flaps of meat that made up their mouths. 

I remember watching them roam below me in packs, tracking down through the tall thickets of dried underbrush some other, equally-ferocious monstrosity that had been dealt the bad hand of living just beneath these feline behemoths on the food chain.

I remember the thick mist of red that soared out in a heavy plume from the smaller beast's gouged neck and stomach. Those streaks of crimson splaying themselves against the arid plains over the muted sounds of dying whimpers.

PART I There's a memory saved away, deep within the sprawling complex that is my mind. A memory or maybe a dream, I can't be sure which, but I can hear it like a far off echo begging me to listen. 

In it I can see I am a child, this being the single memory that remains from that time, and my vision tells me that I'm soaring through the air looking over the Landscape. Seeing its true scope. Boundless. Never-ending. Horrific. Hearing about the fields that surround our Facility on all sides for endless distances in every direction is one thing, but actually seeing them with your own pair of eyes? I can assure you it's another matter entirely. 

I remember those four-legged beasts with shadows so large. Hulking shoulders lined with muscle striations and thick sheets of desert-bronze fur rolling atop their galloping backs. I remember their fangs big as men snarling from behind the thick flaps of meat that made up their mouths. I remember watching them roam below me in packs. Tracking down through the tall thickets of dried underbrush some other, equally-ferocious monstrosity that had been dealt the bad hand of living just beneath these feline behemoths on the food chain. I remember the thick mist of red that soared out in a heavy plume from the smaller beast's gouged neck and stomach. Those streaks of crimson splaying themselves against the arid plains over the muted sounds of dying whimpers. And lastly, I remember my young mind praying with futility to turn around and go from where I came.

I would describe the Facility as a steel-and-concrete-prison of some indefinable size. The Caretakers claim that this Facility is the closest thing we have to a safe haven, but old memories inform me otherwise. They tell me that I was once someplace far away that lacked the lurking horrors that so endlessly accost us. Far away from what follows that all too familiar stench which haunts this metal deathtrap we call our 'safe haven.' 

Residuals. Lanky terrors that stalk the corridors of the Facility. Different from the monsters in my dreams. No doubt about their existence, for one. They bloat the air around them with an odor so foul that your tongue stings sour in their presence and your heart palpitates sweat out through your pores as they draw near. We are told by the Caretakers that they're some long ago abandoned byproduct of either genetic experimentation gone awry or a failed attempt at manufacturing an assembly line process that would allow for the artificial production of life. We do not know what either of these lines of nonsense mean, and only furrow our brow at the explanations. The Caretakers smile softly at our confusion and gently pat our heads as they convince us not to concern ourselves over mysteries beyond our grasp. They tell us instead what is important, what does demand our attention.

They claim that Residuals exist only within our Facility, and that the threat of their aimless wandering only remains as such until we manage to secure passage out of the Facility and out into the 'safety of the Landscape.' A term which does not match up with the echos of my oldest and most fractured recollections. The Caretakers do not make mention of these marching packs that hunt upon the endless sea of rolling plains which surround our Facility's outermost walls. Nor do they tell us that the only fate that awaits us in the barren fields of the Landscape is death. This I know is the truth but am unsure if they know it as well. All I can say for certain is that on the day that one of our expeditions locates the dreaded door leading to the outside world, I hope I am far away when it is opened. 

Living alongside Residuals may be dangerous, but it is at least a danger I understand, and one that I have learned to navigate.

In the now, I am informed by Splice that we are to head again down the northern traverse that we discovered twelve resets ago.

My head aches at the mention of 'reset.' 

The Caretakers, they assure us that scheduling our work days around the wildly inconsistent pace of our facility's unstable mass of power-generators is central to keeping us efficient and safe from Residuals, who are more active when the lights of our facility are deactivated. So during the resets we mark it in our diaries filled with chicken scratches recording brief recollections of the 'day,' bar whatever room we happen to be in, and try our best to sleep while ignoring the invading sounds of prehensile claws scratching on the walls that surround us.

Splice tells me that we are to relieve our bags of everything but a flashlight and two susty vials to make room for any supplies that we may come across during our expedition. He then tells me he'll be bringing along the apple and smoked salmon flavors--he also asks me what I think a smoked salmon is. Ignoring his attempt to ignorantly ease the current turmoil between us, I ask him how full our bags need to be before we can make our return to the inner-corridors; the make-shifted housing complex of safety that the Caretakers have blockaded for us and isn't under constant threat of wandering Residuals. 

"All the way full." Splice answers, scratching his head, his mind incapable of replicating my basic faculty of foresight.

"And how many of us are to go out?" I hesitate to ask.

"Four of us to go out."

I rub my eyes and tears of either frustration or pain come forth. 

Perhaps both are to blame.

Much time has passed since the last reset, so the lids of my eyes weigh heavy beneath my brow, and each draft of air stings sharply against the dried membrane of transparency that coats my vision. Usually, under such duress, I would scream out my pain and frustration while Splice holds me down with his calloused hand over my mouth. But my current exhaustion is too much. Instead Splice and I sit in silence with our bottoms against cold tile floor as I wipe away the last of my tears with my ragged sleeves. The fabric is harsh against my face and irritates my cheeks. I return my gaze to Splice who looks at me with interest. I can tell he's relieved that he won't have to shield my shrieks from nearby Residuals. The space under his eyes is hollowed out and almost completely black. I can see that he too is tired, but doesn't understand why. 

He asks me what's wrong. I try again to explain to him that we need sleep, that we need another reset so we can better function for what will be a long expedition. His bloodshot eyes look at my mouth with interest, but I can tell connections are not being made. The concept is too complex, and while my mind is able to grasp it, I lack the ability to convey it at a simple enough level to follow. I use the words, "too much long in between," and his eyes spark slightly before telling me that if we move faster then we will reach the next reset in less long. I shake my head. My attempts to clarify only reinforce the lies passed down by the Caretakers.

Splice asks again what I think a smoked salmon is before reaching into his already emptied bag for what is probably the saltier of his two susty vials. I ignore the question and ask him when we're supposed to leave, hoping that the Caretakers realize how great the distance they're asking us to traverse is, and will at least allow us to get some sleep during the next reset before sending us off.

He tells me as soon as Adineen and Chon arrive and I begin to rub more tears from my cheeks as Splice watches me again in silence. His arm is outstretched toward me with a small plastic tube held loosely in his grip for me to examine.

"What do you think it is?"

An indeterminate time later--I could not hope to give you an accurate estimate--and I am walking behind Chon, my head swaying left to right upon my neck in a rubbery, rhythmic motion. My eyes strain to look past his silhouette, also swaying through the darkness, the monochromatic red of the Facility's lights outlining his broad shoulders. All I can see with my eyes is red and black. 

He, Chon, had been hesitant to take lead of the group and guide us through the northern traverse, though when I questioned him why, he could not find the words to explain his reluctance. It's odd. He feels his fear but he doesn't trust it. Instead he trusts me. I don't feel anything at pushing Chon to walk ahead of us and first into what inevitably lays in wait. Instead I command my burning eyes to scout ahead of his form bathed in red, hoping to catch a glimmer of movement before he does.

Behind us both walk Adineen and Splice side-by-side following silently, but even I can hear the wordless communication between them--can feel their arms rubbing against one another as they huddle closely through the cold red light. My nose scrunches mechanically at the thought of it.

The large expanse of distance between us and the inner-corridors is becoming larger and larger with each step. Again, I cannot say how long it has been since we left the safety of the Caretakers blockades, and the maddening repetition of the Facility's features makes it difficult to mark how far we have ventured from our starting point. 

There is nothing to signify the passage of time. Nothing to gauge the crossing of distance. The reset does not come, and we move forward, our brains beaten by exhaustion and our bodies on the verge of collapse. I keep my sight trained in the distance, through bloody twilight that refuses to cease and the heavy shuffling of four wanderers pushing forward; separate but together. It's this long passage through space already looted, through corridors plucked clean, it's this passage that is most dangerous. We turn corners and everything is the same. We venture with labored breaths up impossibly long and wide-set stairwells, our arms clenched tightly around the railing against the wall like a lifeline, as if to keep our sense of direction anchored in some sort of reality. We turn more corners and climb more steps. We peek our heads into rooms and strain against the red light to see anything to fill our bags with. Still nothing. The two words pop up ad infinitum. 

Still Nothing. 

Still Nothing. 

Still Nothing. 

The turns and stairs and corridors and red light never ceases and Still Nothing. My mind goes into a frenzy and my heart starts to pump loudly in my chest, reverberating through my body like a burst pipe. I'm not with my body anymore, but I see myself growing more frantic, jumping from room to room to empty room to empty room and still there's Still Nothing. I see that they don't see it and my panic only expands within myself with no one else to transfer it to. My grip shakes on the handle of every door in anticipation to see what I know isn't there and I giggle as my eyes try hard now to focus through the red and black blur that's taken to coating my eyes and I see it. 

Still Nothing. 

Still Nothing. 

I can't stop but look in every door we pass now, sure that we've neared the crossing point. How many expeditions down the northern traverse have the Caretakers sent since my last venture down these corridors? How can we still not have found anything new? How is it all Still Nothing? The last expedition must have found the last of it at last, passed through to the end of the facility--whatever that means. Now we're caught in a loop. My mind tries to trace back the physical layout of our expedition, to map out in my mind all the turns and stairwells and corridors. But only a labyrinth takes image. 

I continue my frantic searches through rooms. 

Still Nothing. 

I search each one we walk past from top to bottom. 

Still Nothing. 

The giggles coming from my mouth grow louder as the words continue to repeat over and over and over again. 

A clatter. 

I know what comes next.

Through the red and the black of my mind a great slithering monster with hundreds of serrated needles in its mouth peers through the distance and smiles at me. I try to scream but a pressure collapses over my mouth. The flash of needles begins to grow in size and the odor catches the back of my nose with a sting only for a second before that too is blocked out by the pressure. I see now what is happening and lift my legs to kick hard at the back of the silhouette in front of me.

Who I can only assume is Chon plummets forward into a table with a loud clatter, and the needles change direction. Beneath the strong grip covering my nose and mouth, my face contorts into a wild expression. Then the silhouettes and the needles and the red all disappear and all that remains is black.

I write this for the boy who will never be first in the eyes of the woman he loves. I write this for the girl who falls for the man who cannot love. ...for the youth searching for the father that wishes to never know him. ...for the old mother who has long been forgotten by all those she cares about. ...for the homeless soldier whose country and society has turned its back on him. I write this for those who would spend their days and endless reserves of energies thinking of those who would not think of them. I write this for those who do not know any better. --Who toil endlessly for love that doesn't belong to them in hopes that they can alter their reality. --That they may make this life one that isn't so wrapped up in itself, but instead looks outward into the souls of others. I write this for those who still believe. ...for the utter loneliness that falls over one like a thundercloud as night falls and sleep takes hold; a cloud which must be silently beaten off upon each and every awakening. I write this for the days that turn to weeks that turn to months that turn to years of repetition. I write this for the still aching heart. ...for the life that will never change. --But for the people who do.

What Adam feared, was what happened to him after his resourcefulness was exhausted. Not so much in being quieted by Bastille, or thrown off the side of the Plate, but more so in being abandoned by the group completely. A cease in communications was calculated by Adam to be a pain that would be too great to bear. He wasn't sure if it was a set of circumstances he'd be able to push on through. Life since following the barmaid from Les Yeux Ouverts and ending up tied to a chair in a darkened basement had become... Demanding. After the interrogation from Son's of Bastille's Lela and her British associate, Adam woke up in his apartment--which had been nearly completely stripped of its valuables(it should be noted that close to all of his books were untouched, and the few that weren’t hadn't been stolen, a fact which he had been immensely grateful for)--with the sour taste of either vomit, mucus, or some vomit-mucus combination in his mouth and a lightly dressed chest wound which was beginning to suffer from a red leakage and was soon to be in dire need of fresh bandages. As he came to and the blurring of his vision began to fade, he realized his door, which at first glance looked to have been simply left wide open from where he was sitting on the floor, was revealed to be, upon closer inspection, completely gone from the small apartment’s premises. 

As in, no longer there.

As in, it had been as if the door had grown existentially tired with the unfulfilling life it led being a door all these years, came to the conclusion that this whole opening and closing thing wasn't how it wanted to spend the rest of its life, made the conscious decision to unhinge itself, and finally left to pursue a passion closer to its heart. Adam guessed sailing or river rafting.

Thank you to everyone who wrote in this. It's honestly the best gift a writer could hope to ask for, and an even better gift for a nervous boy who is about to finally jump into the deep end with no real idea or plan regarding when or where he'll come up. I pray to call forth that strength you're all so sure I have within me, and to become somebody that's worth such kind and thoughtful words. This desert hasn’t always been the kindest to me, and vice versa. It’s caused me pain, anger, isolation, sickness, and heartache, but after tonight, after reading everything you’ve all written to me, I wouldn’t trade the experiences I’ve had for anything. Because it’s clear that I have made friends here, and as one of you said, I’ve left my fingerprints on you. But more important than that, you’ve left your fingerprints on me. And that will never be nothing.

So I hope to carry on and continue to build up who I am, to take these oncoming new experiences and mix them with the old. To not hesitate holding onto the love that exists for this place and the people that live here. And finally, to take great comfort in knowing that I’ll always be able to revisit memories of the first home I’ve ever known in a little blue book.

Thanks for the memories.

Watch me bend and watch me break, But do not lay hands down to mend me. Do not call my name in the dark, And do not seek me out at dawn.

I am the lost, ...and may I never be found. I am the downtrodden, ...and may I never gain strength. I am the unloved, ...and may it always be that way.

For it is with my eyes that stories are told --With my hands; simply transcribed. My legs traverse through the landscape like tired tendrils wavering. Pausing only at the occasional surge that would pass on through me.

I am the wispy wanderer passing through these shattered layers. I am the court stenographer keeping track of all the failures. I am every bit of every passerby man and woman, Searching for meaning before decisively damning it away.

I document the ugly in your heart, Mix it with mine, And code and compile it all behind the wall of my clenched devil's grin.

So, With furrowed brows With scrunched noses With beating chests With grinding teeth With fists shut tight With hearts closed off for the last and final time you swear it Live through your pain. Baby, do it big. Because it isn't the fizzling frustrations that catch my eye, But those thermonuclear detonations of internal turmoil that do it.

My soul resonates with a silent energy, like a swelling sea rising up to swallow the diver.

This energy pervades through me, passing forth from the tips of my fingers and the slithering of my tongue. It moves outward into dimensions unseen but that are felt by the heart.

Yours and mine.

--Our chests acting as Richter scales calibrated to define the low frequency that is the thumping of my newest essence.

It touches you and changes you just as quietly as it touches and changes me. But changes of minutiae are changes all the same, and you and I are now different.

Beneath the rolling waves of black, images sear the ocean like oil set aflame.

Birthed from the disengaged eyes of simple chestnut, a soundless purge removes the diver.

Our art becomes our monsters, haunting our minds and plaguing us with fear. We feed them yet, pouring our souls, and still closer their shadow forms draw near.

Lo! The horror they instill now sharpens, and vivid beasts they do become. The soul of an artist is destruction, to a mind with nary the heart to overcome.

From September of 2014

I'm finding myself all over again getting to know you, And I hold fast to the hope that these nights never end.

You make me shiver. You make me feel. You take me to a place I thought was no more.

Emotions I believed were gone, Feelings I was sure were killed, They're resurging in your presence Like old circuits flushing with energy.

Innocence and boyhood wonder, Rebirthed inside this swelling chest. Yeah, I'm coming alive now, A tapping scarecrow to kinetic beats.

Wide-eyed and kind, You talked to me of your pain. Words touched and reminded me, Of who I once was before disdain.

Before my bitterness. Before my angst. Before the hate that clouded these banks.

...The myre of my mind was stooped, Lurching forward in chaotic breadths. Falling into pitfalls and baited into traps. Walking an endless parade of disillusionment.

But for now that has ceased, And I can catch my breath. Under your temporary shade, There's a weight I no longer heft.

Len's left leg was crossed over his right and he rested his cheek over onto his fist which propped his lazy head up. His facial expressions were shifting every three seconds into more and more ridiculous and childish forms. One moment his cheeks would be sucked between his teeth as his lips pursed comically outward and his eyes bulged like a fish, and the next his nose would scrunch up in outward disgust for all to see and he'd mime with his thumb over to the rotund man sitting next to him as if the guy had released a heavy row of flatulence. Not content with the level of immaturity he was thus far presenting, he removed his cheek from its pedestal and shoved his fingers into both sides of his mouth and pulled at its sides until all his teeth were bared ahead of him and began quickly snapping his chompers up and down in rapid succession as if he were a large-mawed beaver futilely trying to make its way through a tree too big for him to bite down upon. His wide eyes darted left to right in a cartoonish display of confusion.

"Mr. Len?" A nurse called out from behind the waiting room counter.