Dionysus
I feel really good. So i wrote a sad story. That makes sense right? But yeah the sunlight and warm weather does the old SED some good. That said i'm lokoing forward to the 3 amazing cons coming up and seeing con people even sooner.
He thought he had amnesia sometimes. He knew it wasn't true. Amnesia is jsut a word though. Still, he looked at the scars on his tanned skin and heard pain and hurt tap tap tapping ont he window to his concioussness. Except it wasn't tapping anymore, it was screaming. Luckily his windows were slightly soundproof. Tap Tap.
He had things, things never leave you alone. They all came from somewhere, someone. He looked at them sometimes, held them, felt them, smelled them. Images popped into his head. Not quite memories, he could never find those. These were more like snapshots. If someone wrote a documentary about his life these wuold be secondary sources. Tap tap.
Movies tried to tell him that the numbness of "amnesia" that plagued him always come from tragic events that you can't bear to bring up. No, this lack of a history came from a comfortable life. He came from a comfortable life. He looked for tragic events though. They make you feel something at least. He looked for death occasionally, and death repeatedly told him to fuck off.
Once, he thought he might be old. Maybe he was jus tslowly getting flattened by a steamroller with a completely stoned and stupid operator. This was self-inflicted though. Maybe he was stoned. Whatever he was running from apparently had given up the chase a long time ago. He never felt anyone breathing down his neck anymore. He wasn't running from that fat cocker spaniel that only chased the postman because the other dogs did anymore. He missed the dog sometimes. At least it gave him something real to run from. Now he was just wasting time.
He wondered if the things that the television told him improved memory realy worked. They're all just drugs to begin with. Probably anything was better than the gin and tonic that regularly erased his chalkboard. It was in his right hand still. The alchohol daily chipped away at his memories so that his memories wouldn't chip away at him.
If he knew anyone who knew him, he'd sit them down right there at gunpoint. Not really. If he had a gun people still wouldn't take him seriously. He would beg, plead for them to tell him the story that erased itself two lines before it resumed. And they'd drink tea instead of whiskey and listen to music from days of old. Music older than him, just so he could prove that someone in this culture of his had a memory. Songs that had stories. Preferably his. They didn't have to be though. Yeah someday he would remember. 30 years of killing himself can be reversed. Born again he would eb. He'd do it tomorrow though. Tomorrow is much friendlier than yesterday.
He put down his glass. And he let the alchohol do the job that he couldn't do himself and fell asleep.
I never read it before i posted it so it's full of "errors" but what isn't.
He thought he had amnesia sometimes. He knew it wasn't true. Amnesia is jsut a word though. Still, he looked at the scars on his tanned skin and heard pain and hurt tap tap tapping ont he window to his concioussness. Except it wasn't tapping anymore, it was screaming. Luckily his windows were slightly soundproof. Tap Tap.
He had things, things never leave you alone. They all came from somewhere, someone. He looked at them sometimes, held them, felt them, smelled them. Images popped into his head. Not quite memories, he could never find those. These were more like snapshots. If someone wrote a documentary about his life these wuold be secondary sources. Tap tap.
Movies tried to tell him that the numbness of "amnesia" that plagued him always come from tragic events that you can't bear to bring up. No, this lack of a history came from a comfortable life. He came from a comfortable life. He looked for tragic events though. They make you feel something at least. He looked for death occasionally, and death repeatedly told him to fuck off.
Once, he thought he might be old. Maybe he was jus tslowly getting flattened by a steamroller with a completely stoned and stupid operator. This was self-inflicted though. Maybe he was stoned. Whatever he was running from apparently had given up the chase a long time ago. He never felt anyone breathing down his neck anymore. He wasn't running from that fat cocker spaniel that only chased the postman because the other dogs did anymore. He missed the dog sometimes. At least it gave him something real to run from. Now he was just wasting time.
He wondered if the things that the television told him improved memory realy worked. They're all just drugs to begin with. Probably anything was better than the gin and tonic that regularly erased his chalkboard. It was in his right hand still. The alchohol daily chipped away at his memories so that his memories wouldn't chip away at him.
If he knew anyone who knew him, he'd sit them down right there at gunpoint. Not really. If he had a gun people still wouldn't take him seriously. He would beg, plead for them to tell him the story that erased itself two lines before it resumed. And they'd drink tea instead of whiskey and listen to music from days of old. Music older than him, just so he could prove that someone in this culture of his had a memory. Songs that had stories. Preferably his. They didn't have to be though. Yeah someday he would remember. 30 years of killing himself can be reversed. Born again he would eb. He'd do it tomorrow though. Tomorrow is much friendlier than yesterday.
He put down his glass. And he let the alchohol do the job that he couldn't do himself and fell asleep.
I never read it before i posted it so it's full of "errors" but what isn't.