Just A Brief Collection of Ideas Strewn Upon Paper

Every time I put ideas to the pen, and then the pen to paper. I write left to right. Right? At least that’s how it seems to me. Last night while I was writing it seemed rather odd to be doing so, writing right to left that is, like I was using the wrong hand. Well I shall disregard the feeling just like one disregards the homeless. Just ignore them and they’ll be clothed and fed. How does the homeless look upon one as myself? They are always peering up at you, as if they got up from they’re square of cement some other bum will take it right from under them, everyone has something to lose. But that’s all this is. Life. We go through life, living in our lonesome cubicle. Separated from the world but still somehow a part of it. This is a collective nation of the homeless. We are born, bred, and raised in our little square of the universe. We are not connected to the world, rather we distantly participate in it. I see the grass and call it green. You see it and call it green. Perhaps we are seeing the same thing. In my cubicle of life green looks one way. And in yours it sounds another way. Maybe the racists have just been born with wicked eyes and natural cruel intentions. It’s not necessarily their fault. But they are wrong, from my perspective that is. And the feeling of love is simply terrifying for the masochists. And every time that cheerleader literally spills her guts after eating, does she feel like I do after thanksgiving? I do not know. Nor do they. Our cubicles are not the same but they may be somewhat similar. Those who commit murder and terrible acts against themselves and theirs own, they are the ones whose universe sets their mind ablaze with madness.

Mark Twain stairs at me from my newly acquired mug. I purchased it from the thrift store for forty cents. All the effort and materials that went into it. Forty cents. It wasn’t even worth a dollar to whomever no longer wanted it. Well I want it. And I wouldn’t sell it for mere cents that is for certain. I value worthless things sometimes.

Zachariah is walking through the forest that he walks through everyday after a long, tedious time at work. This particular day is no different, the trees are still in bloom, the squirrels scamper up and down trees after one another, and birds leave their nests. September never looked so good. “Warm today, gonna have to bring a jacket soon though,” Zachariah thinks to himself out loud, “fall is on the horizon.” Somewhere in between thinking about dinner plans and appreciating a robin’s nest a large oak tree wavers in the wind. This tree was planted ages before Zachariah was even born, there’s no way anyone could have foreseen the events that followed. The weakened tree begins its journey down towards the earth with the help of gravity pulling it down ten meters a second. Nobody had heard it coming. It hadn’t been anything personal; it was simply the tree’s final resting place. It also just happened to be Zachariah’s as well. Vital organs are crushed; his lungs struggle to take in necessary air. With his hands at his side he is pinned to the ground, like a note reminding one to check his email stapled to a corkboard. He yells for help. He yells until blood pours from his raw throat and into his mouth, he no longer forms words but animalistic cries. This is true desperation. Everything starts to get a bit fuzzy and hazy as if it was the morning after a hard, warm rain. Out of the fog and the blackness he starts to see something different. The warm forest is no longer itself, trees start to look like white pillars, bushes are really counters and desks, an IV is in his arm. A more familiar image is at the forefront of his vision. And he didn’t think, he knew who it was. It was his family. Here they all are, half-circled around him and his hospital bed waiting. Waiting for him to die. The sound of the forest is completely gone now, replaced by that of mankind, crying, yelling, some persistent beeping. This beeping was barely even noticeable at first, now it dug into Zach’s skull, at least it was slowing now…

Lindsay watched her weakened brother in his hospital bed for the last time; this had been one of many hospital trips she and her family had made in the last few months. Zach had been suffering from some sort of cancer, she really didn’t know too much of the details, all she knew was this was the last time she would say goodbye to her older brother. The last few months had been especially hard, every time they visited it seemed Zach lost more weight than last time. Walking into the same hospital room, the same dead smell of cleaning products and piss mixed equally, the same motionless body of her former brother, the same countless tubes and machines. More of a shell of a former self, than a real human being she thinks casually. But today he finally gets to finish living and move on. Luckily everyone else had made it today, Lindsay thought to herself. We’re all going to miss him very much, and as this thought crosses her beautiful mind it begins. One of the machines amongst the mass of electronic nonsense begins to make a sound that you wouldn’t need a doctor to tell you was malevolent. They all knew what was happening. Just then she saw something that she hadn’t seen in months, it was something human in Zach’s eyes. Some sort of realization, like the kind you get when you skip to the end of the book before you finish it. And then it was gone. He was gone. A moment of silence, and just a moment before everyone began to talk. Talk and talk, about arrangements, about bills, nonsensical things. But before that, all it took was a moment. Just a moment was all it took to appreciate the beautiful September day outside of the window. Fall is on the horizon.

II. Nothing can be predicted. Prophecy? No such thing. The time beyond this very moment is intangible. Do the limitations of the human mind exist only within the mind? I think so. It is impossible to cross over to the grave while still being even partially alive. We all are only partially alive. And we walk one plane at a time, and beyond that, there is blackness- there is nothing at all.

An estimation of what happened to Zachariah's body when he died is of little significance. This is because his soul will most likely spend eternity in purgatory, right alongside everyone else who has fallen to death. It is a place that negates any sort of progress, any sort of forward motion- it is an eternity spent in inaction. So much like this life. So much like what was once life.

Zachariah's state of being, or what Lindsay assumed it was, came to her in a vivid dream. Zachariah was trapped in a room full of mirrors; every piece of glass was seamless and disguised the wall entirely. There was a door to this room, but as soon as it closed, it was impossible to see the exit- what was once the entrance. Human instinct told Zachariah that he needed to escape, as he was placed in this room against his will.

Each panel of glass in the room refracted and reflected the image of a sole body in the middle of the floor an infinite amount of times. The images seemed to go so far back that they appeared to become someone else. The only light came from a single space in the mirrors where glass did not properly align. Outside it was daylight. By this Zachariah kept time. But the daylight was just as intangible as the state of the soul in purgatory. And it didn’t take long for the reality to dawn; that in this place the only element that was able to be controlled was Zachariah’s own mind. Everything else existed outside of his control and could only be materialized if he was consciously aware of it. Because of this principle, we all exist alone and mostly purposeless- as ships that have never sailed. “Reality” is truly just a state of mind. And although two people’s vision may intersect, their entirely separate realities can never be grafted.

So many people question and debate whether there is life after death. But who wonders about whether there is life before death? The only reason death tempts some is because life- true life- was never existent to begin with.

Morning came the day after Zachariah’s death in the most non-descript manner. Nature doesn’t mark time in the lives of humanity- that is our own doing. Lindsay had slept a black, dreamless sleep, and when she woke up, there was nothing. No empty space that someone’s life had once occupied. Lindsay glanced at her alarm clock, the product of someone else’s, or many people’s, estimation of time- and decided to give up on tracking the time for that day. Eventually she found herself out of bed, and standing in the doorway of what once was Zachariah’s bedroom. That place certainly resonated with emptiness. But to Lindsay’s surprise, the room was filled with a lighter sort of emptiness- with sunlight. The curtains were held back and the bed was stripped. The closet doors were wide open and Zachariah’s belonging were strewn across the room in plain sight. Covering his bed and desk were notebooks, letters, and loose paper that had all been retrieved from the closet.

Lindsay sat down at his desk to read a page that was full of Zachariah’s handwriting. The words took her to the same state of mind he was in when he wrote them. They contained no prophecy, but they did tell of the past. There were no traces of sadness, but maybe some nostalgia. Lindsay remembered what Zachariah was describing in his random, misplaced sentences. No purpose. Just writing for the sake of memory. She remembered the day, and everything they had felt and what had occurred. She was with him. And for a second being alone in existence was not the case. For a moment, Zachariah and his sister’s thoughts collided in space, in the same way the seasons go from one to the next. The thoughts passed. The memory was embraced, and soon after, released.