FENCE/DIVISION There is my side of the fence and there is theirs. Mine is empty, save for myself. Theirs is crowded - though that would imply movement or purpose in the figures behind the mesh. It is littered. Frozen in time they seem, hulls waiting to be inhabited, as they stand, sit or lie in the grass, faces free of defining features. I watch them exist. Time passes on my side of the fence and I grow restless. It has been so long. I shout at them to look at me. I jump up and down on my side of the fence, waving and groping for their attention. Some of them are facing my direction but they were so before and my antics do not seem to concern them. Empty faces remaining directed at empty space. I pace along the fence, looking for someone, anyone, who will notice me. The strap across my shoulder is beginning to chafe, the weight it holds becoming heavier with each passing moment. Step after step I walk, the fence stretching in an endless, straight line, my fingertips catching in its meshes. It occurs to me to climb it, the fence isn't too high, but I don’t, because I know I do not belong on the other side. I call out again, over and over, my voice cracking with the pitch. A figure lifts his head. I call out and stop to wave at him, beckoning him closer. My pulse is speeding up, heart thumping against my ribs. He turns to lock his gaze with mine, a stare that could be a sheep’s for all the awareness within. Still, it is a relief to be noticed if not seen. I beg him to come closer, my fingers threading through the meshes as I lean in. At first, the movement of his head does not translate to his body and it seems as if this is the limit of his animation; then he takes the first step. And another. And another. I wait as he approaches. His progress is slow, every second heightens my anticipation. My hands find the polished wood at my side. The heaviness of it is reassuring now, the weight no longer a burden. The coolness of its surface against my skin steadies me. The man stops at the fence. My fingers find the metal, touching against and around it. I raise the gun and shoot. He doesn’t fall. Does not move at all; not a waver, not a sound. He continues to stand as before, the blank stare of his eyes replaced by a red, wet ruin. Already the memory of his features is fading from my mind, dissolving in the rivulets running down his chin, neck, and chest. My exhilaration fades. I look around for the other figures, for anyone. They are gone and so is the fence. There are no sides anymore. I look back and he has come closer. Still silent, he is holding out his hands. The gun is a burden. I lift the strap from my shoulder and place it on his upturned palms. His hands close around the wood and the metal. His eyeless face follows me as I sink to my knees and now I know, I am finally seen.
Warning, slightly disturbing descriptions ahead. I found a lump in my palm. Not callus or a blister, or splinter like I initially thought, just a slightly reddish lump under my skin. And it's driving me nuts. What is it? Where did it come from? Do I do something about it? Maybe it is a splinter after all. Maybe there's something stuck in there. I don't think I can leave it like that. I've been prodding around at it for a while, trying to see if I can get the splinter out, if it is one, but the skin is unbroken. That means, whatever it is, it couldn't have come from outside. I tried to ignore it but my fingers keep coming back to the spot. I mean, there's got to be something there, right? It feels like there is. Well, here we go. I couldn't stand it any longer, so I cut it open. Nothing there. Just skin, and some more skin, then flesh. It doesn't even feel lumpy anymore when I touch it. I don't know what I expected. Now all I have is a throbbing cut in my hand and no closure. Great. And the worst of it? Still can't stop touching it. There's got to be some reason for that lump to be there. These things don't just pop up, then vanish. And now, when I touch the spot, I think I can still feel it. I don't think I've cut through the last layer of skin yet, so maybe it's underneath there. And it also feels a bit off to the side, so maybe I just have to make a bigger cut. Maybe I just missed it. It's got to be something foreign. Maybe it's a splinter that got there without me noticing and is now coming to the surface. Or, it is nothing at all and I've cut open my palm for no reason. In any case, I've stopped trying to get at it for now to write this entry but even while I did, I kept looking and prodding at it. Can't stop imagining how satisfying it'll be when I finally cut deep enough to get out whatever there is. I don't want to but will probably try again later.
Dream Diary Entry 1 BINGT AND DECEMBER I sit down. The old woman seated opposite looks me over. “Who are you?” “Bingt.” “No.” she shakes her head. “Not your name.” What then? I shrug. “We will find out.” She sets a book on the table between us. Small it is, the binding frayed from use. As she opens it, symbols of a kind I’ve never seen are revealed on one page. On the other, two numbers are written. “Signs or ciphers?” the woman asks. I hesitate. “Choose.” How? There is no basis for a decision, no clue to go by. I cannot see the sense in it, but I feel there is no other choice but to make a choice. So I study my options. The symbols refuse to reveal their meaning, as do the numbers, yet there seems to be a quality about them that draws my attention. It feels right. “Ciphers.” She nods. I wonder what it means. Her fingers trace the edges of the yet unopened pages, stopping at a point decided seemingly at random. She turns them open. On the left page, a single word is written. On the right, more numbers. “December?” she asks. “Yes.” This one is undebatable, even though the meaning remains a puzzle to me. “Choose,” she says again and points me to the numbers. I contemplate them. I am confident now my intuition will guide me to the answer. There is one number that draws me to it, one that seems to be in the right place, at the right time. I do not resist it. “Forty-four.” She smiles then; this answer seems to please her. “The 44th of December.” Heat washes over me at the phrase, my skin prickling up as a sense of urgency pervades me, electrifying every hair and crevasse. Magnifying. She closes the book. “I know who you are now. Do you?” I can’t help but smile back. Yes, I do. “Good.” she nods again, bringing closure to our conversation. “Now go. It is past time.” I stand and leave. It is dark out, the perfect black of earliest morning. I’m tired, but sleep is no option, not yet; the revelation demands my immediate and utter commitment. There’s so much to do, so much to prepare. It is the 18th of October - only forty-four days left.
Cigarette count of the day: 2 Letters to my name, brandings insignificant, staking out a path Lying to friends Tomorrow, another time Dream expels me, washing up on the concrete, mask left behind Wondering how it fit Descending Standing at the foot of the stairs Want to stop, not go up, sit down, shut down Battery drained Up the count Lighter when I'm lower Up There they are again, old familiars How's it gonna be this time? Give in, don't fight back, sit it out and let the deluge pass See I'm not gone with the tide Water colour shadows on the shower wall, apparitions washed away, swirling forms ascending from the depths "they'd rip you open you if they got the chance but they cannot see the monster you are" Look at the mark of the reminder skin and blood ink and pain What's there to remember? Eyes closing, listening Diving down, letting go, want to let go, sinking deeper Craving remedies, machine forbids Surfacing Light, bright and grey Necessity pulls me along
"Don't look at the eye," they say. I look at it. I get slapped. "Don't look at it," they repeat. "Why not? What happens when I do?" "Don't," they say. So I don't. At least, I try not to. The rules are few and simple. Don't look at the eye. Don't touch the skin. Don't listen to the voice. When I break a rule, they hurt me. But it's alright that they do; I deserve it. I know I shouldn't, but it feels good when I do. So I break the rules and take the penalty. But most of the time I try not to. Not looking at the eye as its gargantuan form hangs above the horizon is easy. I avoid it as one would avoid looking at the sun. But just as the sun ever so often draws a fleeting glance, the eye draws mine. It stares at me, always at me. After chancing the first look, I can now feel the pressure of its iris even when turning my back. Others don't seem to mind. I wonder if it stares at them as well. Not touching the skin is harder, as it covers every surface. Soft and rough. Organic. Its drawing power is akin to the gravitational pull of a rising dream. Inescapable, once I cross the line. So I give in. I pull off my gloves and run the tips of my fingers across it. Feeling the texture. The warmth. I shudder. Not listening to the voice, that is hardest. It is ever-present, sometimes quiet, sometimes loud. Always insisting. How do they expect me to not hear it? I can't just shut my ears. And what does it say? "Look at the eye; Touch the skin; Hear the voice; See; Feel; Give in." I have a feeling it gets louder and louder every time I break a rule. I want to leave. "You can," they say. "How?" "Don't look at the eye. Don't touch the skin. Don't listen to the voice." “I can’t.” They hurt me again. I feel ashamed. It seems so easy for everyone - why not to me? Why can’t I obey their rules? Obey and leave? They set a mirror before me. It is the only thing not covered in the skin. I know the eye is behind me, staring at me, but it is not reflected in the mirror. As I look into it, the voice is muted. And there I see what I shouldn’t be able to see: my face - without eyes; my body - without skin. I scream - in silence.
[REDACTED] Did I say trophy hoarding? It's really just about one professor trying to fuck over the other and we employees are the sticks in their spokes. Feeling like I'm barely managing and will never be able to achieve anything above the level I am at right now, yet the guy who's giving me money tells me I'd been his first choice and he thinks I can become a top-level specialist of my field. One of us is clearly practicing severe self-deception. Thinking about moving to Amsterdam.
They say blogs are what the cool kids do when they got words that fit into no other place. So here we go. I tried to put an experience into first person but somewhere along the way, it went... different? ----------- I never thought a bed made out of twigs, sticks and leaves could be so comfortable. Comfortable in a sense that it's softer than lying on the bare ground. It's still hella cold, though. And scary. As a city dweller, you never really get to experience real silence. Or a real 'outside' for that matter. In the forest though, at night, away from all the towns and streets and any civilization in general, 'silence' becomes something new. Something more than just the lack of traffic noise. Organic. It feels like the silence itself is a presence around, rather than the absence of something. And just as you start to think the quiet is the scary part about sleeping out in the open, the noise starts. Imagine that. One moment, it's like you're the only living thing around; the next, all the critters that had been scared away by the disruption you caused start stirring again. Flitting feet. Nibbling teeth. Calls, hoots, snapping twigs. And you, you just lie there, eyes closed, still as a log, and hope that whatever is lurking at the edges of your shelter isn't anything bigger than a fox. I stare up at the underside of the tarp that forms my makeshift tent. I'm really lucky to have it. Of course, it's no real protection against anything worse than a bit of rain but the illusion helps. I feel better, now that I can pretend the outside doesn't exist. The first night was worse. I just huddled there, under that tree, wrapped in the tarp and waiting out the scary hours of the dark. I thought I didn't need to build a shelter. That I would find my way back before the night came. I was wrong. At least I still had some provisions so I got to munch on cereal bars while I waited for morning, trying to ignore the feeling you get alone in the dark - that something is staring at your back. Maybe it would have been better to save the snacks. I was confident that I'd get out of this forest the next day. Well... wrong again. Damn, I'm hungry. The first day of not eating was bad but bearable. My stomach growled non stop while I trudged through the thicket and later it started hurting. The hurt and the growling is gone now. It only feels like a heavy hole in the middle of my body. Yes, a heavy hole. That doesn't make sense? It's how it feels. Emptiness weighing me down, sucking in my strength. I listen to the silence. It's still near perfect. I've just crawled back into my shelter after going out for a piss and my stumbling around among the trees and bushes has scared the forest dwellers back into hiding. The apex of the food chain out among them. I nearly got lost trying to find my way back to the shelter in the dark. That would have been hilarious, wouldn't it? My own breathing and a faint rustling is all I hear. Somewhere within the heap of leaves I used to pad my stick- and – brushwood mattress a million multi-legged creatures are crawling about. I try not to think too much about it. It's been quiet for a long while now. I don't know exactly how much time has passed but it's more than usual. What's keeping them so long? Where's the scritch-scratch of squirrel claws, the squeaking of rodents or the haunting calls of the screech owls? In the wild, at night, the silence gets a truly alive quality. It grows and grows until the absence of sound becomes a presence. Outside my shelter, there are steps.