Reconnection ntjstawtchmkr
There are moments of time that come to me in small snippets, faint but poignant, and always vaguely familiar. I see myself, or at least what I think is myself, in life events that seem too important to forget or confuse with anything else. One should remember their own wedding with each and every detail. I assume that's what I'm seeing. The ring in my memory looks very much like this one draped around my neck on a silver chain. "It's your one memento," I was told as it was handed to me by some stranger. "Hang on to it, it looks like it's worth money. You may need that one day if you don't get your job done. You can use the cash to buy your life back. Maybe."
I'd be happy to buy my life back if I only knew what it was that I was buying.
New York was already strange enough before this haze that came over me. Of all the places to be alone in a crowd, this is it. Right now, I feel like I don't even exist, even though I'm standing on this dirty corner in Queens, with a noise piece in my ear. If I could only see the thing, I'd rip it out. But they must have surgically implanted it into my earlobe. Some man with an accent I can barely understand is telling me to go across the street, and ask to have a battery replaced on my watch.
I feel mindless, but not stupid. "I'm not wearing a watch," I sharply remind my director. I'm told to go in there and buy a watch then. I scan the scurrying streets to look for who's looking at me, but I see nothing. I guess I'm not the only one alone in a crowd in the Big Apple today.
I shake out my hair as a way to shudder off my discomfort. I notice the blond strands that caress my shoulders. This isn't me. This can't be me. Blonds are annoying. They do dumb things, like give bad hair cuts in make shift jails or kill drunk Irishmen in their own pubs, fuck low ranking politicians, talk to themselves in the mirror while playing video games and cheating on their hot, phasing husbands, tell fortunes while being topless, or become cheerleaders. I'd never do any of that shit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I feel like I see a ghost of myself...myself and a man...a dark, VERY DARK man. It's a kiss, and judging from the flutters I feel when I look at the empty space of where I thought I saw the spectral vision, I would say it was a first kiss. A stolen one, a surprising one, a life changing one. I feel compelled to go into that watch shop, but not to buy a watch. Something...someone...that belongs to me is in there.
With a sense of purpose, I begin to walk through the crowd as if I was parting waters to get to my destination. Whatever is in there, whoever is in there, they can tell me who I am, what happened to me, and how can I get back to where I came from. For the first time in what seems to be an eternity that has had no beginning, I feel a sense of relief.
And then...that pain again. That steely, icy-hot, razor sharp pain of a syringe in my neck, and the burning liquid that follows it. "Don't be a hero," I'm reminded as the fog comes over me again. "Just go do your job." A blurred vision of a man I somewhat recognize walks past me as I adapt to a wobbly stance, my eyes fixed on the building a block away.
By the time I get to the front door, I feel well enough to stand, to talk, to tell the half truths I'm supposed to think are truths. But I don't know. I don't know anything. All I know is that I'm supposed to do what the piece in my ear tells me to do.
I step in to the dusty, cluttered shop. The scent of history and time overwhelms my disconnected memories. I look at the reversed writing on the window, "Gray and Son."
"Which one am I looking for," I mumble to myself. "Gray or the Son?"
"Tell him you want to buy a watch," I'm instructed again.
Given that there's no one around, I'm finding it hardpressed to buy a watch from anyone. "There's no one here," I say a little louder. "I'm leaving."
"You're staying," I'm scolded. "He's there. I promise you. He's there."
I'd be happy to buy my life back if I only knew what it was that I was buying.
New York was already strange enough before this haze that came over me. Of all the places to be alone in a crowd, this is it. Right now, I feel like I don't even exist, even though I'm standing on this dirty corner in Queens, with a noise piece in my ear. If I could only see the thing, I'd rip it out. But they must have surgically implanted it into my earlobe. Some man with an accent I can barely understand is telling me to go across the street, and ask to have a battery replaced on my watch.
I feel mindless, but not stupid. "I'm not wearing a watch," I sharply remind my director. I'm told to go in there and buy a watch then. I scan the scurrying streets to look for who's looking at me, but I see nothing. I guess I'm not the only one alone in a crowd in the Big Apple today.
I shake out my hair as a way to shudder off my discomfort. I notice the blond strands that caress my shoulders. This isn't me. This can't be me. Blonds are annoying. They do dumb things, like give bad hair cuts in make shift jails or kill drunk Irishmen in their own pubs, fuck low ranking politicians, talk to themselves in the mirror while playing video games and cheating on their hot, phasing husbands, tell fortunes while being topless, or become cheerleaders. I'd never do any of that shit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I feel like I see a ghost of myself...myself and a man...a dark, VERY DARK man. It's a kiss, and judging from the flutters I feel when I look at the empty space of where I thought I saw the spectral vision, I would say it was a first kiss. A stolen one, a surprising one, a life changing one. I feel compelled to go into that watch shop, but not to buy a watch. Something...someone...that belongs to me is in there.
With a sense of purpose, I begin to walk through the crowd as if I was parting waters to get to my destination. Whatever is in there, whoever is in there, they can tell me who I am, what happened to me, and how can I get back to where I came from. For the first time in what seems to be an eternity that has had no beginning, I feel a sense of relief.
And then...that pain again. That steely, icy-hot, razor sharp pain of a syringe in my neck, and the burning liquid that follows it. "Don't be a hero," I'm reminded as the fog comes over me again. "Just go do your job." A blurred vision of a man I somewhat recognize walks past me as I adapt to a wobbly stance, my eyes fixed on the building a block away.
By the time I get to the front door, I feel well enough to stand, to talk, to tell the half truths I'm supposed to think are truths. But I don't know. I don't know anything. All I know is that I'm supposed to do what the piece in my ear tells me to do.
I step in to the dusty, cluttered shop. The scent of history and time overwhelms my disconnected memories. I look at the reversed writing on the window, "Gray and Son."
"Which one am I looking for," I mumble to myself. "Gray or the Son?"
"Tell him you want to buy a watch," I'm instructed again.
Given that there's no one around, I'm finding it hardpressed to buy a watch from anyone. "There's no one here," I say a little louder. "I'm leaving."
"You're staying," I'm scolded. "He's there. I promise you. He's there."