A piece of literature...or so it seems
I wrote this during J-term...it was interesting, and turned out so-so, but a change in writing style is important...
The room I left, as always, in near total darkness. Three small candles are the only ebb to the pitch, each one in honor of the family I lost. Walking slowly towards them, I run my fingers through the flames, and rub absently at the warmth. I can barely remember their faces. When I leave this place, who knows how long it will be, perhaps I will see them, or perhaps I will be able to think on them clearly. Nothing is clear in this place, not even my own thoughts.
Still, I come here always at the end of the day, forfeiting the open air for my desolate bedchamber. There is a light switch on the wall, which might as well be collecting dust for all the use I’ve given it. I don’t know what I’d see if I turned it on. Probably nothing. Already I am forgetting myself, pieces slipping away into the shadows that hold themselves against me. I gaze into the flames, and wonder what they could possibly mean.
Outside, I know things, I’m sure of it. I even almost remember it. In here I only know one thing: that door does not open unless she comes for me. Whether it is her will or mine that keeps it shut so tight, I’m not truly sure. When she is with me, I can think only of pleasing her, of following her wishes as precisely as if she were a Drill Sargent. Where did that come from? I don’t know that I’ve ever heard that term before, and yet it rolled off my tongue as naturally as every other word. But then, how would I know any of them at all, when I cannot seem to recall anything at all on command.
To my right, my mirror, inside of which I only cast a hazy silhouette in the pale candlelight. I reach out and place my fingers against the cool glass surface. Or is it really cool at all. I believe it is, but just as easily, could I not believe it to be warm? Perhaps it feels exactly as the flames did against the pads of my fingers, and because I must believe the glass feels different, it does. If I asked her, "Is the glass really cool, and the fire hot?" She would answer me, "Of course, that’s the way of the world." But it is her world, and this is mine. In my own world can’t I have hot glass and cool fire?
It occurs to me now, that these thoughts I’m having even now might not be my own. She might have planted them here. It’s reasonable, isn’t it? She is the only thing that I know in here. I cannot even recall the purpose of the three candles, which I swear I knew not ten minutes ago. And what of this concept of time? It’s nonsense, all of it. Time does not pass here, it stops, lying in wait to be jump-started again. It begins the moment I walk out the door, and ends before it finishes closing behind me. It doesn’t exist to me, at least not right now.
Limbo. This word comes to me, though of course, reflecting upon it there is no meaning or understanding. But when I do think on it, I get this overwhelming feeling that I haven been put upon a shelf, like a child’s toy, for safekeeping. Here I cannot be trampled on, or lost, or spilled upon. I can’t be stolen, if I never leave these confines, and though I know this is a fear of hers, I can’t recall exactly why, or how such a thing is even possible. Surely an adult such as myself, cannot simply be carted away. Can I?
The whole idea makes no sense.
I turn my back to the candles and the useless mirror. I should stand here and not think at all. It’s taken me nowhere I want to go, and promises to do more of the same the longer I keep at it. I still can’t recall anything, still can’t do anything. So waiting is the preferable option.
I know that I am lonely now, the sound of my own silence is upsetting me. Just when I finally stop thinking, I begin to miss it, as my own thoughts are my only company here. Which brings me around to my earlier blunder. These thoughts may not be my own. And if they are not, then I should stop letting them come through me, if I have any free will at all. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll stop these thoughts from floating through my brain and that will be that.
For a moment there I almost had it, but then along came this persistent thought about the deafening pitch of this silence, and all was lost. I wonder if she is thinking right now, and if so what is she thinking right now? I can’t imagine it’s anything very good, especially if I’m sitting here not thinking of anything much at all. It’s her fault of course.
Oh wait! There, a flicker of something, a memory or some other process of firing neurons across synapses. Now I’ve gone and wasted it. Here I thought I was about to remember something about myself, and instead I wasted it on a human biology lesson. I could have done without that, and she could have done better in giving it to me. I don’t think she even cares what goes on in this room, as long as I’m agreeable once that door opens again. Well what if I’m not? What if when she comes, I refuse to leave? Or what if I leave, but refuse to come back here? Wouldn’t all come to the same end? How do I figure? I haven’t a clue, but I’ve decided it’s what I’ll do.
Knock, knock.
I really am beginning to hate that sound. I decided so between the first and the second one that that sound is not one I enjoy hearing. Here it comes again; it is really starting to grate on my nerves. What makes such a horrible noise? There it was a third time, and it sounds like it’s coming from over there, behind the door. Perhaps I should go and open it. After all, it might be her.
The room I left, as always, in near total darkness. Three small candles are the only ebb to the pitch, each one in honor of the family I lost. Walking slowly towards them, I run my fingers through the flames, and rub absently at the warmth. I can barely remember their faces. When I leave this place, who knows how long it will be, perhaps I will see them, or perhaps I will be able to think on them clearly. Nothing is clear in this place, not even my own thoughts.
Still, I come here always at the end of the day, forfeiting the open air for my desolate bedchamber. There is a light switch on the wall, which might as well be collecting dust for all the use I’ve given it. I don’t know what I’d see if I turned it on. Probably nothing. Already I am forgetting myself, pieces slipping away into the shadows that hold themselves against me. I gaze into the flames, and wonder what they could possibly mean.
Outside, I know things, I’m sure of it. I even almost remember it. In here I only know one thing: that door does not open unless she comes for me. Whether it is her will or mine that keeps it shut so tight, I’m not truly sure. When she is with me, I can think only of pleasing her, of following her wishes as precisely as if she were a Drill Sargent. Where did that come from? I don’t know that I’ve ever heard that term before, and yet it rolled off my tongue as naturally as every other word. But then, how would I know any of them at all, when I cannot seem to recall anything at all on command.
To my right, my mirror, inside of which I only cast a hazy silhouette in the pale candlelight. I reach out and place my fingers against the cool glass surface. Or is it really cool at all. I believe it is, but just as easily, could I not believe it to be warm? Perhaps it feels exactly as the flames did against the pads of my fingers, and because I must believe the glass feels different, it does. If I asked her, "Is the glass really cool, and the fire hot?" She would answer me, "Of course, that’s the way of the world." But it is her world, and this is mine. In my own world can’t I have hot glass and cool fire?
It occurs to me now, that these thoughts I’m having even now might not be my own. She might have planted them here. It’s reasonable, isn’t it? She is the only thing that I know in here. I cannot even recall the purpose of the three candles, which I swear I knew not ten minutes ago. And what of this concept of time? It’s nonsense, all of it. Time does not pass here, it stops, lying in wait to be jump-started again. It begins the moment I walk out the door, and ends before it finishes closing behind me. It doesn’t exist to me, at least not right now.
Limbo. This word comes to me, though of course, reflecting upon it there is no meaning or understanding. But when I do think on it, I get this overwhelming feeling that I haven been put upon a shelf, like a child’s toy, for safekeeping. Here I cannot be trampled on, or lost, or spilled upon. I can’t be stolen, if I never leave these confines, and though I know this is a fear of hers, I can’t recall exactly why, or how such a thing is even possible. Surely an adult such as myself, cannot simply be carted away. Can I?
The whole idea makes no sense.
I turn my back to the candles and the useless mirror. I should stand here and not think at all. It’s taken me nowhere I want to go, and promises to do more of the same the longer I keep at it. I still can’t recall anything, still can’t do anything. So waiting is the preferable option.
I know that I am lonely now, the sound of my own silence is upsetting me. Just when I finally stop thinking, I begin to miss it, as my own thoughts are my only company here. Which brings me around to my earlier blunder. These thoughts may not be my own. And if they are not, then I should stop letting them come through me, if I have any free will at all. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll stop these thoughts from floating through my brain and that will be that.
For a moment there I almost had it, but then along came this persistent thought about the deafening pitch of this silence, and all was lost. I wonder if she is thinking right now, and if so what is she thinking right now? I can’t imagine it’s anything very good, especially if I’m sitting here not thinking of anything much at all. It’s her fault of course.
Oh wait! There, a flicker of something, a memory or some other process of firing neurons across synapses. Now I’ve gone and wasted it. Here I thought I was about to remember something about myself, and instead I wasted it on a human biology lesson. I could have done without that, and she could have done better in giving it to me. I don’t think she even cares what goes on in this room, as long as I’m agreeable once that door opens again. Well what if I’m not? What if when she comes, I refuse to leave? Or what if I leave, but refuse to come back here? Wouldn’t all come to the same end? How do I figure? I haven’t a clue, but I’ve decided it’s what I’ll do.
Knock, knock.
I really am beginning to hate that sound. I decided so between the first and the second one that that sound is not one I enjoy hearing. Here it comes again; it is really starting to grate on my nerves. What makes such a horrible noise? There it was a third time, and it sounds like it’s coming from over there, behind the door. Perhaps I should go and open it. After all, it might be her.