The World I'm Thinking Of

Trying not to make contact, I cracked a path through the patterned pastel flatness world of stranger-wall paper. That day I wasn't feeling particularly special, the standard of standard, the king of default yet- "Are they all looking at me?"

I see a sea of shipping containers, plastic in color reaching out toward the reachers of the sun’s hues. Each container is a visage once upon dream once dreamt. Some contain idyllic mountains where a couple is having a picnic. Another, a sea of abandoned suitcases. The next shell is empty of all matter - not dark just void. One is a nightmare, a scene long forgotten that has lived on in the recluses of piles.

o AS I WALK THROUGH IT, THEY SPRING UP TO ME LIKE SOUNDS IN THE NIGHT. SOME DISCONNECTED, SOME IN CHAINS OF NONSENSE BUT CHAINS NONETHELESS. I’M NOT SURE WHICH CAME FIRST, OR CAME LATER. THEY SEEM TO COME ALL AT ONCE - I DO NOT BELIEVE THEY ARE IN ORDER. I HAVEN’T SEEN THEM BEFORE, BUT I BELIEVE THEM. I TRY TO STRING THEM TOGETHER - MY OWN STRING. TO FIND SENSE IN THE SCATTERED, BUT I FIND NONE. IT’S JUST A PLACE WHERE THINGS ARE STORED, MOVED FROM THE UNREAL AND MADE INTO A REALITY. MERELY A RENDITION OF THINGS THAT ARE DO NOT EXIST IN REALITY, TO THE TACTILITY OF AN ARTIFACT. MANY ARTIFACTS FILL THIS ROOM - THEY DRAW FROM NOTHING THAT PHYSICALLY EXISTS YET THEY HOLD THE WEIGHT OF MANY THINGS THAT YOU CAN’T DENY EXIST. I’M NOT SURE THAT PHYSICALLY, ANY OF THEM HOLD ANY GRAVITY OR SIGNIFICANCE. PERHAPS, THEIR WEIGHT IS FELT MERELY BY EXISTING AND NOT THROUGH HOLDING.

STAIRS UPON STAIRS. A ROOM OF EGRESS; THE NINE SETS OF STAIRS SHIFT TURN IN THE CLOCKWORK TOWER. THEY MAY LEAD UP, OR DOWN. PERHAPS.

“EXCUSE ME” I FINALLY TURNED TO THE MAN WALKING BESIDE ME AFTER THE NINTH TIME PASSING HIM BY. “HOW DO YOU GET OUT OF HERE?” HE IS REMAIN SILENT. BEING A FAST WALKER, I SOON LOOSE VISION THE MAN. THOUGH A FEW HOURS I AM SOMEHOW PASSING HIM AGAIN. “HOW DO YOU GET OUT OF HERE?”

A STAIR OF SPOKES LEADS TO A WALL OF WINDOWS THAT LOOKS TOWARD THE WHITE OF WINTER. BLANK LIKE A STORY ABOUT TO BE WRITTEN.

HULLS ARE SEWN INTO PARCHMENTS AND ROLLED INTO ROLLS, WRAPPED WITH AGED TWINE AND SLID INTO BOXES, STACKED INTO COLUMNS AND SPREAD INTO ROWS. THEY ARE, THE SHELLS OF OUR DREAMS, PACKAGED LIKE GIFTS BUT SEND TO NONE

I DIGRESS, EGRESSES OF EGRESS, LEAD ME TO A FATE THAT IS NOT MY OWN. EGRESS.

SOMETIMES I BEGIN TO DOUBT” MAN A, WHO WALKS ALL DAY ON A BRIGHT YELLOW PLANET “IF I AM ROLLING THROUGH SPACE, OR IF SPACE IS ROLLING AROUND ME.

THE UNDERSIDE OF MY CHAIR LOOKS QUITE EMPTY.

HULL IS LIKE EGRESS. ESCAPE TO SOMEWHERE… THOUGH I GUESS THE DIFFERENCE IS HULLS BRING YOU INSIDE WHILE EXISTS SHOW YOU OUT.

AS I TAKE ONE STEP FORTH, HE DOES WITH ME. BACK, TOGETHER, WE MOVE LIKE LOVING DANCERS. I LEAP - AND WE BREAK APART. THE ELASTIC DISTANCE BETWEEN US CRACKS THROUGH THE SKY.