Old Story – Perfect

Published August 24, 2021
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I wrote this story in 2001 after I graduated from high school but before I was ousted from college. It’s overladen with passive voice, and parts of it are cringe. However, inside there is a gem of creativity and innovation. It’s not exactly the happiest story. Like On Being Different this story focuses on the inner brain processes, somewhat, of an undiagnosed and untreated Bipolar-II and Borderline Personality Disorder. Please note that this entire story is a work of fiction and that there is no reality to it whatsoever.

Perfect

By Asher Wolfstein (2001)

It was a cold June Tuesday. The rain tapped on the double paned windows and I kept thinking thoughts without words. Peter. I had told him I loved him; it was never really the same.

I stood in the middle of a circle of scared and earnest faces telling them that I didn’t care whether they lived or died, I was in it for the money. I drove home but didn’t stop when I got there, just kept driving further into nothingness.

But that had been another part of me that had last control. I listened to the love songs on the drawn out radio broadcasts. Every time I thought of love I could feel a growing animosity; like a thorny bush growing within me. An animosity not of love lost or never found, but an animosity towards existence; this loathsome play. That wasn’t me though, that was somebody else.

Now I have a power beyond sustainability though, and I’ve discovered I can use that to help people. I can also use it to destroy people. Even now there seems to be that ever-continuous battle of full actualization and power, between the potential for prosperity or destruction. However, my potential is so far beyond, because time doesn’t matter to me now. Each individual I effect is a construct of situations stacked on top of each other. My amusement is the rearrangement of the foundations, the singular building blocks that covertly alter the course of what’s to come and what was.

I finally have control over people, I can tell them what to say and when and I can tell them when to be themselves. What I don’t have control over is the final outcome, no matter how hard I try some unfortunate souls cannot be helped. Whatever the result of what they were trying to achieve, whatever process of self-actualization that they go through, is already written into their passion play. It is these that are the easiest to say no to; it is these that are the hardest to let go of.

I can remember so many things; they all randomly come together. One after another all in association with each other somehow, each memory a resounding chord leading onward. Driving onward, I can remember his dark eyes watching the scenery go by, his long black hair in day old combed back style. The wind from the cracked open window, which he used to tap his cigarette, slid over his face and through his hair kissing the collar of his leather jacket. What was he thinking as he watched the trees go by? That’s what I remember the most vividly – like a slowed down motion picture – when he would turn his head and look at me with those murky eyes. His smooth features were cryptic. I kept thinking he had sunglasses on when he viewed the world. He did not. The cigarette ash fell on to the seat, leaving a little mark on the upholstery.

My mother was heavenly, the closest to the almighty than I have ever seen in a woman let alone anybody. She laid there at night when her children were sleeping and she prayed to God. She said she could feel him above her, and that no matter how lonely she felt, no matter how helpless, she knew he was always with her. She still retained that utter integrity of human spirit that we all strived for until the day she died. That’s what made everything so real, so full: the authenticity of the intent meant everything. I’ll never understand why I could never quite be authentic, but that’s why I am what I am today.

I used to wonder if a lot of old people could and did will themselves to death, but now I know. I know a lot of things now, I know how it feels to let go of everything too soon and fall into a black oily abyss of a murky iris that never blinks. I know how it feels when you’re being crushed by the authentic strength of the universe and get no light at the end of the tunnel. There never really was an escape, I never really could make an escape.

I’ve discovered that the best part about swinging is not the weightless levitating feeling you get when you go too high. No, it’s the bruising jerk you get when you fall back down onto the strap of plastic. It reminds you of the painful truth of never truly escaping existence: as if we were all angels waiting to be that kept falling back down to the cold hard ground. I like to swing now more than I did before because now it’s like one solid block of inertia and momentum all working on a pendulum that’s in all the right places at all the right times. Since I can control time I can freeze existence at that exact moment when one is weightless and you feel like you’re flying, or right at the snap of the head at the abysmal bottom of that guttural jerk. Or even at that time when they sent the dark energy through every receptor in my body. I could freeze existence at the exact moment that my silvery lining faded away.

Sometimes I save people because I can feel the pain that they will feel and I have to save them to make it stop. Like the kid in the fire that couldn’t leave his stuffed animal behind when he dropped it and got entrapped within a circle of flames. His tears were mine, his cries for help came from me. They lurched me out of my murky dimension and brought me screaming sunlight at an unseen sky. I came onto the scene ready, this particular one wouldn’t be too hard. I hit rewind on the VCR in the kid’s head and we both traveled backward to the exact moment when he dropped it. I paused, then grabbed his hand and tossed the animal out an open window. We were three stories up so he was free now, falling unharmed to the soft grassy ground. The kid ran towards the open door, and for a second turned and seemed to look at me. I think he saw me.

It was really cold, so sudden and serene. All the light got refracted because of the changing densities between air and water. I could hear the motor of the boat speed away. Sound travels faster in water than it does in air. I couldn’t remember at the time how I had gotten there, but now I know they didn’t throw all of me into the water. I was in a straight jacket, but I didn’t struggle. I had an overwhelming feeling of stillness, the stillness I had dreamed about before and was now experiencing. I somehow knew everything was going to be all right, how little I knew then.

But some things never change. People say they understand pain, and some of them do, many of them feel one form or another but don’t necessarily understand. What people don’t understand is the true pain of everyone. That pool of sadness, anger, and pure pestilent pain. They interface to it, they experience part of it, but they don’t understand it. I have found the door to this domain hidden somewhere within an enigmatic spiritual maze that could fill dusty tomes with explanations. It’s like one of those horror movies where the villain is trying to become all powerful and evil and he has to go through so much pain in order to accomplish it. Like dying a thousand deaths to become immortal. I wonder why you have to die a thousand deaths to become immortal. Not necessarily the thousand deaths, but the reason behind them.

I told Peter I loved him. Peter didn’t love me. I’m not sure if Peter was ever really my friend. A true friend would have understood, but Peter didn’t understand. Slowly, what I thought would never change changed, and places I thought I’d never be I was. Things just happened. I spun out of control into a mass of blunt pieces with no receptors trying to make connections with each other. My hands were not always mine, my system incomprehensible even to myself. I had become fragmented fleeting moments of contorted faces all strung together by one body.

I saved Peter once. He didn’t even know it. I don’t care either way. He was driving in a heavy sleet and fog, going very slowly so as not to drive off the road. Careening towards him as if in fast forward was another care, teenage female driver. She was crying. She was not all together, she was in pieces like I had been. So I drove for her. I told her to just let it all go; to just be and that it will be taken care of. Amazingly enough she complied, either that or she was crazy enough to do it anyway. I pushed the brakes, and turned slowly onto the side of the road. I watched Peter pass by, completely oblivious to my presence, or what I had done for him.

I haven’t always been such a savior. I used to feel nothing at all and out of some sociopathic boredom I decided I’d amuse myself with my powers of control. It seemed like a good idea at the time. His name was Jack. I knew Jack, but I didn’t care. That was the fun part, that was the part I found entertaining.

Jack had gone along a different path. He knew about me, but he didn’t know the how or the why. Jack, with his deep black eyes and his long dark hair, had finally gotten his life together. He needed a job to support the apartment he’d gotten with his savings. He wanted to move on, he wanted to live and he could have if it hadn’t been for me.

When he got that fifth employment rejection that was me, and when he couldn’t get a loan, that was also me. When he had to move out of his apartment and sell his old furniture, TV, and books, I was watching. It was me in the park who had followed him. He hurried up, we both started to run. I was in control, I could fly. It was me who jumped him and yelled at him. He said I could take his wallet just don’t kill him.

“Do you know who I am Jack?”

His face got very stern, then he quivered to shake out of his head a semi-decent no.

“I was there Jack when we killed them, I was there Jack when we took everything and moved on. I was there, Jack, when it burnt a hole in the ground, and I was there to hear all the screams bellowing out of his head. I was there Jack when they put me away, far away from humanity because I wasn’t human anymore, but a cold lifeless shell of emptiness. But you know what Jack?”

His eyes widened, as he quickly came to the realization, “Oh. My. God.”

“You know what? You weren’t. You just simply weren’t. You weren’t there, you simply weren’t there,” I stood up, and produced a good sized knife. Jack put his hand to his hairline, as if that was going to do anything. Flipping the blade towards him, I glared at him, “Look what I’m doing Jack,” I stabbed the knife into my right hand. “Look at what you make me do Jack!” I stabbed my left hand. “It’s all because of you Jack. It’s all because of your stare!” I ran a jagged cut across my forehead. “Your dark murky subterranean soul.” I stabbed both feet. “You said everything would be all right, you said nothing would happen, you said a lot of things not true. But you were talking to no one,” I stuck the blade in my lower side abdomen. “And now no one is crucified for your sins!” I rose my hands to form a cross, lowered my head and let the blood flow.

Jack ran away. I laughed when he hung himself from a street lamp later that night. Now I feel everyone’s pain.

It all kind of starts to run together when you think about it for too long. How all the chaos can end up in such a stagnant but strong law, a blue cold eternal stillness. No matter what events I conceived there was never any change. Somehow I had become the flaw in the system rather than the one controlling it. Every piece always led to my capture. They were hunting for a fake and now they’ve got one.

Sometimes I wonder if the universe still exists. Although my eyes are open, I don’t know if anything else except me, my cage, and my thoughts are still there. However, the question I really can’t fathom is how I could have seen anything in the first place if my eyes were never really open to begin with. Maybe I’m simply a blindman’s visual dream.

I’m sitting there, tired, on the chair next to the telephone and I’m looking at the Jell-O molds hung on the ceiling support beam with idle interest. One of the Jell-O molds seems to have a dent in it. “That’s too bad,” I think, “I wonder how old that is.” Then I slowly realize as the image becomes more clear that that same dent seems to be in some other places too. Then I look past the light and shadows and discover that what I had thought of as an old flaw before was actually part of the original design.

I don’t sleep anymore. I don’t have to. There is no movement so there is no reason to do anything associated essentially with living. Sometimes I wonder though if maybe all my experiences and powers are all part of some dream that never ends, like an eternal slumber.

I make up dreams for myself though, a form of daydreaming without a day. I wander sometimes and I come up with thoughts for myself to explore. I had created a tree in a vast field of ghostly white grass. This tree had a clear exoskeleton and inside you could see a myriad of blue veins. When I walked closer to the tree you could see figures of myself glowing blue traveling up these veins. Sometimes they were used somewhere in the tree, where they decayed as the life force was sucked out of them. Sometimes a figure popped out of the end and burst into a golden showering of sparkles. It was so beautiful and serene. I’m not at loss for capabilities of distinction though, it’s all only in my head, and not really real.

I used to stay up late at night writing some strange stuff, back when I thought I was a writer. I guess in the end that’s the only thing I’ve actually held on to. But now, instead of someone else’s long winded narrative it is my own, however, I have a suspicion it’s been that way all along. People don’t realize how dangerous writing can be, nor how dangerous reading it can also be. I guess the true readers and writers realize that breadth that stretches across a bottomless chasm and can experience the exhilaration of traversing a work hoping not to fall off the edge into a grotesque world. Alas, as with all things, people have created a comfort zone, they read romance novels like they watch TV shows and simply spend their life wishing. In the end they become a sum of all their wishes, and all their dreams can fulfill them, but only in their heads and alone. When people truly understand something they’ll realize their perspective was wrong on everything and they’ll begin to truly understand even more, everything will be in a different light. I guess that’s what happened to me, disenlightenment. What I think is funny, looking at everything out of time now, is that everybody has the power to do the same thing I do, they just don’t realize it yet. Their time hasn’t come.

Sometimes I wonder about the deeds I had done, and the ones I had forsaken. I trick myself into thinking something has changed and that now I’ve gained a new perspective on everything that renders the old perspective so illogical that I can’t comprehend it anymore. But it’s not true. I know I can understand it. I just can’t always put it into words. Why did I bruise myself on the swings? Why did I create the bloody mass in that one room that nobody checked? Was it because I had written it? Was it because I wanted to understand even more so I could write the truth, write the best, or know myself better, bend myself until I was so warped something inside snapped and broke without me realizing it? The questions are good, but I already know the answers. Even if I think I don’t. It never changes.

I did it when I was young, and out of embarrassment I had promised God that I wouldn’t do it again. Then I did it again when I had grown only to show myself that there was no God. Now, I know the truth.

He had transformed into something ugly, a powdery white substance of decay covered his naked body as he vampirically sodomized middle-aged housewife Witnesses while sucking their life force vacuumously through their mouths and into his twitching head until their eyes turned a cold solid white.

He was both the creator and the destroyer, both the truth and the lie, both action and inaction. He was all and insubstantial.

It was through the revelation of this double-thinking that he was reduced to non-existence. That he was beyond love and hate, and simply the force behind everything, even me.

I dreaded the day, even though it would have eventually come, where I would have been greeted by a white-eyed Watchtower because then I would have known beyond any zealot that the fate of existence was terminal and sealed forever. I was so right, and yet so wrong.

Sometimes I would dream of what could be described as another world. I’d always end up wanting to draw some part of it, one especially strong image to me was that of what was described at the time as an anthropomorphic wolf, a bipedal wolf with human characteristics, in the middle of a really great laugh. I wanted draw the perfect picture: eyes squinted, ears perked, mouth open, and tongue hanging out. I guess I never realized that drawing was kind of like writing. One day I sat and thought and thought about this image, letting it grow in my head, pen in hand and a blank sheet of paper ready. Then the epiphany struck and my pen quickly scrambled it out in straight line after straight line. When I was done it wasn’t anything like I wanted but it was me. There he was all laid out, a machine within him. Blood oozed from his mutilated genitalia. Pneumatic pumps worked their ways with tubes and wires running into and out of him.

I can still remember the stench when you entered the room. The skins and carcasses on the walls; their eyes looking at me. They watched me when I would shove it down kicking and howling into the meat grinder. You’ve never heard a dog truly howl. I wrote then: “Someday I will know what to build and I’ll crawl inside of it and possibly not come back out in one piece. Something tells me not to scatter myself, I don’t want to spread the disease.”

The disease, ah yes, the disease. That tired and trite metaphor for my condition. It was the best word I could find, a disease. After all, they called them mental diseases, and you can contract a disease. It’s not contagious, bacterial, or viral, just an imbalance of humors.

Somebody tried to tell me truth was relative one day. There was no point in explaining anything to them, I could tell from that one statement, they couldn’t handle the truth. To them truth was malleable, truth was what they constructed in their own hands. When they disliked something they just convinced themselves that if they simply believed hard enough, since I guess belief alone had some unexplainable magical force, whatever they wanted would be true. They bought into the lie. They bought into that puny self-righteous lie that over time became what some might call artistic vision. People were so confused, they couldn’t see that all they were doing was performing mental masturbation. They were getting it off in their own heads, thinking they knew the truth when all they had done was construct it with their own hands. They wouldn’t get the difference between truth and morally righteous correct. They’d say things like, “Well, Hitler thought it true or truthful to slaughter Jews.” And not even realize how awkward the words in the sentence. SO WHAT? So what if Hitler found it morally righteous to endorse the slaughtering of Jews? That doesn’t make the idea that it is morally righteous true. Hitler could not have floated off the ground if he thought it true, nor could he have breathed underwater, transported himself magically from one place to another, or traveled in time just because he thought it was true.

You know why that is? It’s because Hitler didn’t decide what was true. Two plus two does not equal five. It will never equal five at the most core level. If Hitler doesn’t decide the truth then what makes all these other people feel as if they do, even to themselves? Truth is absolute, truth doesn’t just change if you don’t like it. Truth is what’s there even if you don’t like it. Once you can understand and accept the truth… Truth is that metal object raping you, cold and hard, planting its seed-machine within you so that you become its spawn. I am a minion of truth. Truth has broken me.

They chased me, through the pasture of the past, the rosebush of the present, and the crystal of the future. They have seen all I have seen and they want revenge on a mission of malicious vengeance. Their tools are solidified and warped objects of my own memories, thoughts, and dreams, and I am at their mercy. I am alone, naked, and cold.

They are fragments of my actions, those I’ve afflicted, every pet I ground into dust, every person I screwed, everything that was afraid. Out of time and out of place, they haunt me in a nightmare I can’t control. In some carefully calculated systematic design they have attacked from all sides so that even in the reality I have come to face, traveling across decisions, situations, dreams, entities, and the system I have built for myself, there was never a moment of escape. I was never free to begin with.

What nobody ever quite realized was that I know what those bruises on my arm were because I had given them to myself on the swing. I was able to hand myself damaged flesh, almost like a strange reverse masturbation, as a substitute. It was a metaphor, everything was a metaphor, there were all metaphors. It was the physical manifestation of an esoteric feeling, a very complex feeling and understanding of it. I had come to the realization, there on the swing in my physical body, that somehow, somewhere down the line, my existence was flawed because I am flawed. The original design included purposeful imperfections. I am not the solution, but also the problem.

One day I discovered that there was nobody else like me to help. I had been just as self-delusional as them. However, I wasn’t completely off base, there was a certain quality that existed. The center of this quality was in a room floating around in a sea of stars. Now that was magical. One giant complex spark that was forever exploding. It formed patterns, communicated messages, and changed colors. It symbolized a breadth of everything, black and white, good and evil, positive and negative. It was manichaeistic, dual in all respects, serene yet active, hot yet cold, illuminating and yet it darkened it’s surroundings. It was a part of the perfect machine. It was a part of the cure.

It gets to a point where I no longer help people. The disease has spread and I become hunted, so I have to try to help myself.

Space and location have become relative to me. I can now construct and experience phenomena beyond myself as if I was walking through them. Their meanings become physical symbols with which I can interact. It’s like a good formalist approach to the great American novel, or one of those movies where the main character is dreaming. Sometimes I stop to wonder if my whole existence has been a dream, and if I have been the one dreaming it.

Across timelines and situations, different paths and worlds open themselves to me as events are altered, almost like a videogame. Very early on after I ended up where I am, I remember a thought I had. This was actually more like a cross between a dream, wish, and thought. I would focus my emotions on such a spot, but I never had enough time, resources, or opportunity to make them happen. It was the story of my life. Somewhere along the way I had thought it would have been very fulfilling to have a child to love; to watch it learn, grow, and mature. I could imagine the feelings of joy, security, that unexplainable rush of feeling, the heightening of emotions; yet somehow there was that feeling of uncertainty. I required an understanding, except the exact specifics of that understanding were incomprehensible unless you understood. There was only one person I could have ever been with. Peter. Except that wouldn’t let me have children, and if I did they wouldn’t be a part of me nor me of them. Peter understood, as long as I knew him he understood. He always did. Sometimes I wonder if I was the one who understood Peter all along.

I never got a chance to not be a virgin, everything was so short even though it seemed so long. I dreamed about it, sure, one of those emotional focal points, but it just never happened. I exploded before I ever got the chance.

I hate being left out, I want to do everything that everybody else gets to do. So I constructed my own situation. I gave birth to my own opportunity, and I had sex with Peter. It wasn’t easy. I had to do a lot of calculated maneuvers in order to get Peter in the right frame of mind, to get the timeline arranged in just the right way. Starting from early childhood and culminating in our sexual liaison, every situation had to be perfectly aligned. I wanted it to be real, I wanted him to make the moves he wanted, to engage in the activity himself, not control him.

So there we were, the archetypal situation, in the boy’s locker room. To my surprise he initiated. We were the only ones in there. We had just showered. Dripping water is so picturesque. Sometimes I wonder how much Peter actually knew. It was beautiful, when he was actually moving it in and out of me, hold me down in a strong embrace, a towel over both of us. The feelings were immense and enlightening. I could feel doors opening in and out of my mind. I looked in his eyes from down below, and everything shot backward. Everything expanded, we were in every situation imaginable: public restrooms, bedrooms, basements, open fields, mountains, falling from the sky… Everything orgasmed at this point, I froze time at the exact moment. The universe was in the state of one giant orgasmic explosion. If I can create art in this state of existence, this was my masterpiece. It was me forever.

Then it happened. The whole situation may have changed but I had not, and I had forgotten. A minute after the incredible moment I puked. My whole body convulsed in one big shiver and bloody vomit boiled forth from my lips all over my chest. Peter quickly pulled back, “Holy shit!” I staggered to lift myself with my arms, letting out an involuntary moan, it was unearthly. My body convulsed again and more blood came from within. I was covered. Peter bolted out the door. All that kept running through my mind was broken and damaged pieces of myself. Proctologists and gynecologists and their victims, little kids being invaded, the utter physicalness of the world. The thought that I was now the object from which so much confusion, hurt, and anger came from. It was sickening, and made me vomit to get it out of me. I saw the disease lying on the floor, the people in the walls trapped within the system, I was the feeble. I was part of the perfect machine, but I was malfunctioning. Crouched over the toilet in the stall I knew what I had to do. With all the time I must have spent on a toilet, reading and writing my dreams, coursing through my mind, and how only all the wrong ones came true, I began to sever it off of myself. By the time the others came, I had chewed and swallowed it. It was the ultimatum to myself.

When I looked back down upon myself, I finally saw the machine in my stomach; the robotic control, the meat grinder inside of me. The planted seed grown into a machination, part of the perfect machine. It ripped through my flesh, and slowly fell into the toilet and broke. Nothing mattered anymore. Now I’m frozen in ice forevermore. I am part of the perfect machine.

My quiet place frightens me, all pristine and lifeless. I would be in a prosaic pose, naked and beautiful, serene and still. Cold, stuck in a block of ice, with geodesic sides reflecting what’s within, a circular mirror forming a room. Wires running through the walls and into me, my eyes would be open and I could think, but not move. So I would form a piece of some larger puzzle of myself. And he would always be sitting there, staring at me.

I was hunted down by pieces that formed a larger sum than themselves put together. Pieces of animals I had tortured and ground up, pieces of people I killed for money, pieces of myself and my dreams I had left behind, pieces I had no control over.

They finally caught me. They strapped me to their contraption of revenge. I had no weapons, no means of defense, I deserve what I got. Slowly they turned up the power and connected themselves together to form the energy. They were so frightening, and yet they were mine to accept: a dog’s head with no eyes, a bloody teddy bear with razor sharp claws, a motorcyclist with a flaming body, and more. They all wanted to push themselves inside of me with their rage.

This darkness that I had bred inside them, this darkness I knew was mine became focused through the torturous invention, and they sent it through me. They sent the dark energy through every receptor in my body, my wings fell off, and my silvery lining faded away. Then they dropped me into a sea of cold cutting ice, where I slowly formed an ice block around me. Even though I would become part of the perfect machine, I already was.

My mind forms such simple constructs that are somehow so complex. I must do the same. My constructs are compressed torture devices, where all the troubles in the world enter your body and you can hear their screams as nightmarish noise in your head. Your eyes crust over for you can no longer see, and your hands pump some unseen chemical through their opening and closing.

The machines only want to please you, but all they do is cause you pain, grief, and sorrow. They want to help you but they are built as imperfect programs, with habitual and random malfunctions. The only retaliation is submission until you can’t feel hatred, anger, sadness, and pain anymore. They have stolen your very happiness by leaving it alone, and you become the flawed machine.

The only solution is to self-destruct and let it all go. Let it all go into the hands of a higher power. I’ve always been one to shirk common solutions in favor of my own constructs, in their potential perfectness lies the key to existence. With knowledge of things beyond our power, I will control the tapestry and unweave myself out of and into every picture so that I will be alive and real, rather than one flawed random construct.

She didn’t think it would be the same to ride with those heavy things stuck to her feet anymore than she could imagine keeping them on all day in school. They were just awkward and heavy, as if all the world’s weight was pulling her feet back down to the earth and keeping her grounded. But, that was the price to be paid as a young, light dreamer trying to do such big things.

What was she thinking? She’ll look ridiculous with weights on her feet while riding, she should just wait until she’s older. But she felt she should be allowed to do anything that anybody else could do, or else… Well, life really is fair isn’t it?

To her, life was fair, and if it wasn’t she’d make it fair. So she marched up to the horse, as best as you can march when the world’s weight is pulling against your every step, and hoisted her light, little self on top of the saddle.

It was pretty high. She almost felt like she was queen of the world from such a height, but then she remembered the weights. With a sigh, the word was issued and the reigns lifted and gripped.

It was such a relief to feel the slight breeze against her face, without that awful feeling that she was going to fall backwards at any moment. Such a relief to know that this worked, that she was not too small nor too young to do anything she wanted, that the world was as straight as the line the horse was walking.

And there I was, watching the whole drama from the bleachers, unseen and unheard. I reveled in the thought of obtaining what she had obtained again. Where I could know that, in this universe, there was always a straight path. But I knew better, or at least I think I did, and now look where I am. Maybe, when she had dismounted, taken the weights off and gone home I should have ridden that horse, maybe it would have stayed with me forever. Few things are forever though and when I went back and rode that horse the same course persisted to present itself, and the ending never changed. I suppose there’s a reason for being what I am, and for ending up where I have, but I’ve convinced myself that reasons don’t matter anymore.

I rewind back to that moment when she closed her eyes while riding and got this expression on her face. It was that of a little girl being happy and smiling carelessly into the wind. The only time I had ever closed my eyes and looked that serene before was when I was tired and simply closing my eyes offered me the comfort of a silent world and a silent mind. My quiet place use to scare me, but now that I’m in it, I have found there is nothing to fear. No matter how cold I get, no matter how less alive I become, there will always be that silence of a serene little girl; too young and small to ride horses making the world a little more fair by riding one. It isn’t about proving anyone wrong, it isn’t even about proving to yourself you’re right. So far I’ve discovered it’s all about yourself, because in the end, there will be no weight of the world to pull you down, nothing to keep you grounded, but you and the horse you’re pretending to ride; frozen in ice forevermore.

I would be a perfect moment, a perfect machine, a perfect being. Without smell, without taste, no words, just an undercurrent hum. All my feelings wrapped up into one. My existence finalized, my purpose clear. He would understand.


And there you have it. My brother’s friend, or perhaps my brother, described it as a “300-lb black woman sitting on you,” the way it was written. It’s not the greatest, but when I submitted it once to a writing website, someone described it as one of the most creative pieces on there. So there’s that.

Image Based On A Photo by Tatiana Pavlova on Unsplash

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