Ramblings and Abel's Likeness

January 30, 2023

Wow. I must've been in really bad shape back then. Those painkillers must've really messed me up. Just how much of that medicine was I taking? It's scary reading this.

Freewrite

I have just finished writing down a dream I had. My mind is contorted into shapes that shouldn’t be allowed. Perhaps the painkillers I’ve been taking since the surgery that removed my wisdom teeth are having effects on me. Some undesirable feelings tremble inside me. An unmistakable anxiety. If I were to listen to music, I would lose all grasp of reality.

Unquenchable terror within the threads of dismay. Burning coal in my eye sockets lay. The fire and brimstone alive in my sight. And I fill the pitchers of horror and every delight.

What shall I write today? I have considered what is worth my time. Yet all of it seems utterly afoul of any good intention. I could transcribe dreams. Perhaps paste my poems to my website. I’ll start with that. I feel the cauldron of boiling water bubbling in my lungs. And my uneasiness gives way to my restless demeanor. I must pace upon the treadmill. I must stand. I must run. My afterimage chases me. The shadow of my guilt is near. Croak nailed to my torso. Never have I been so morose. I can hardly feel anything. Emotions have died within my throat. I can’t wake up to question my sorry state. I should continue in wondering what has happened to me, but I feel trapped and imprisoned to this my new fate.

Woodwalkers. Crow stalkers. Every single long-limbed monster. Centipedes crawling up my legs. I feel scared of what I have not seen. I sit in my chair, at my desk. I have not taken terrible medicines. I have refrained from those with powerful effects. And yet my head reels from the damage. I know if any were to read this, they would think I must be suffering an attack. Perhaps some overdose that rattles my head. But believe me when I say that this is not so. I have gone clean of prescriptions and drugs. Never more sober have I been in my life. So don’t fret about what nonsense I spout, I'm merely trying to write. A freewrite, and it will be scary. Do not fear me from what I have avoided. I could talk to another, and perhaps I should. Maybe my sister or brother would be in the mood. I could transcribe their story into this article. I could help them with stories, write more of them now.

I hear them even now in the other room. Talking emphatically of what they will never do. Speaking of dreams that they can’t remember. A fever dream piping hot from the stove and the kettle. I am not so tired as to lose your mind. But the train of thought I have left behind. I feel my life slipping down the drain. And my mind clings tight, so I hold the reins.

I saw on Youtube’s front home page the recommendations that I usually would enjoy to select, watch carefully or my favorite channels from which to see. And past videos that I feel I must catch, or missed livestreams that I haven’t seen yet. But I still wait for nothing as I, motionless, resign myself to sitting at my desk for all time.

Should I log in to my blog? It’s been a year now. I haven’t been back there, or read my poems aloud. I should return, but I fear what I would see is the poems that I wrote would all be waiting for me. Their eyes are wide-open. Their pupils dilated. Intense concentration. They’re shaking and nervous. Today we have a volleyball activity. That is, I am invited, if I wish to join. I feel sick. Every time I eat a bite. I feel sick. I can’t hold it down. My stomach feels to be bursting, perhaps that’s the anesthesia talking. The vapors in my veins to my heart knocks me out.

I fear what I write since it sounds so much worse than what I am feeling. I do not wish anyone to feel distress on my account. I am in control of myself, and my emotions are tied. The worst that could happen is that I’d… sit perfectly still. Do nothing at all. Waste all my time, until the night falls. Death is not a concern, for I would not put myself in danger. I would not take the car to drive, for that I am wiser. I’ll stay home if need be, I won’t go outside my house. For I cannot trust that my senses speak truth.

I can hardly toggle the feeling in my limbs. Whether I should give up or should I give in. But no temptation would fall to sin. I must stay strong in my lot, and victory to win. Prayers in my heart, the light shining through. And to the devout, they are not a few. The course I have set, I’ll ever renew. Obligations have wrought will eternity’s view.

What story should I write? This is no good freewrite. I have given no plot, nor character. No conflict drives, no setting to stay in. I could watch a video, but I’d be interrupted. I want to research Gemini Home Entertainment. But I am busy typing the words in my head. I cannot stop and check the browser. And Youtube’s algorithms have not brought it here.

What should I write that I have not already said? Why does every rhyme end in the word “dead.” I never wanted to be so negative. But my mind is wrapped tight with violent images. If any read this, they would think it a warning. That this were a sign of my mental wellbeing. And I must admit that I’d think the same thing if I were to read it myself from objective reality. But as of now my heart sits on top of my chest. Beating and bleeding, pouring out the contents. Pulsating, oozing. It spills onto my desk. And now I should clean up the puddle of this mess.

I am ever distressed with my concurrent meaning. My words have no value when I cannot read them. I never look back at what I have written. So swears and curses could be what I’ve left there. But I am not one to be vulgar and profane. I would never leave rudimentary remains. And the traces of my presence should purely contain the essence of my blessing and the old song of the well. Rhymes do not continue to dwell. In the lies where all will be quelled in fright of what my courage must melt. Melt like the elements in fervent heat. And if Hell brought fire then the furnace seeks, the vanquished and anguished and all in between. The terror in my eyes, where our gazes meet. Should I go back to the treadmill, grab another laptop? Get off the internet, take another stop. This morning my brother woke me with a song, as the music was playing, harmonics prolonged. The jester in my vision I did never repeat, for when in this circus what could I defeat. My memory in the rubbish, my calamity. And never should I trust computer search history. The time is now past. It’s after 4:50. The trademark of the press, what I, that I need. I feel my lungs drown, and my heart as it sinks. Down below my ribs to the belly of the beast.

Should I write of Occulturation? If I do, would it be a poem or a narrative? Would it be contemporary work in this continuity, or some thrown-out rough draft, never to repeat? My sigh in the wind, my skin is chilled. And by and by, I never will. But by your sides, the snowbanks filled. Frozen in ice, motionless, still.

If not Occulturation, then ECCC? What then should I write of inequality? Egocentrics and their soul complete? I am not alone, someone is here with me. In the darkness. In the vastness. My closet is empty. My lightswitch is off yet, I hear them breathe. The air on my neck, wet and cold, tingly. The blanket in my hands is ethereal and light. The lamp shines right through its ghostly transparent sight. My brother complains that I repeat myself oft. But I complain that I don’t speak enough. My shaking hands, my purple skin. Twinged with, let frostbite win. The snowy blizzard in the window sill, heats up my insides, numb so I don’t feel chill. Burning the diaphora, the heat of the kiln. The oven is baking, my womb is born still. Fruit of my labor, apothecary to wilt. Withering presence of atrophic silt.

At the bottom of the river lies the movies. The River Styx beckons past the River Lethe. No I cannot pronounce the names, I can thus hardly breathe. Frontal lobe page, and questions to grieve. Swear by the words of your temple and head. But swear not all, lest you break covenant. The holy place lingers and fills you with malice. Soft-spoken injury, choking on the chalice.

Right now I listen, I watch along to the sound. Complaints of the organization, I wonder what now. Dragon not in the voice, what could you be there for? What is here with me? What did you need? My eyes are barely touching my face. What should I do? Let’s see what sound burst in my visor. The lives in my head, the imagination’s choler.

So I guess I should begin writing. Something more akin to story telling. So what should I begin to write? Maybe I should begin to write what I would desire. So let us begin.

…

…

Heretic falls from the sky. There is something in the window. I watch. What do you think? But broken from the memory. There is a dangerous trial on the ground. Terrifying. What is this noise that assaults my ears? The silence that strikes me when I am with you. Descent Into Avernus is the adventure we will start. Should oceans of malice beneath krakens and squids. Hopeless desire from what I need to repute. Discuss the utter device of buying collect. What is not wanted from faces in my name. Who is the sycophant of gotcha what you see. The tentacles watching from above where you sit. What is here for the dragon fist claws on the minefield of belief.

No, that was despite my ancient carols. What you said when you mean. There are decisive victories in my mind. So let’s hope for a mind for what you see. There is nothing in my head for what I decided. I want to see what cannot be. An instant alertness is awake in my mind. I feel ever so alert with a sudden burst of energy. Hope is not decided here. Let’s begin. Let’s begin. Let’s begin.

…

…

The age of my time is awakening. Here we go. So how shall I begin? Let’s start with my hooves to strike. Dorn said he was gonna be a tortle for higher AC. Let’s begin what I need to start. Where should I begin? My mind is growing sharper. I hear a video in the background alerting me to my senses. It tells me to breathe. It tells me to be calm. That comforts are necessary. I feel the stress melt away. I feel the sadness in my brain. The torso, the lungs, the diaphragm, the ribcage. What can I say? A spider in the currency.

Here we go. Will I finally start? A freewrite? Let’s begin. Oh. I am just about to write, but my emotions well up inside me. Close your eyes. Let’s try it for the first time.

Greesha runs after the ghostlight. … No. I haven’t even read the latest Occulturation draft. So what do I intend to do? Maybe I can begin with something that has less obligation. Less preconceived notions. So let’s try again.

Abel sits on the bench in the city bus. His Shadow, Cabel, stands beneath him. His Reflection, Babel, still sits in the bathroom mirror back home. Shadows may be mobile, but a Reflection is stuck in their frame of reference. He can’t go anywhere. Abel would have to carry the mirror with him to help his friend explore the world. But that just isn’t reasonable. If he only had one Reflection, he would gladly carry him around. Unfortunately, most reflective surfaces produce a Figment. A Reflection. He can’t help them all. And he doesn’t want to play favorites. He always feels guilty every time he comes across a new Reflection of himself. He has inadvertently given birth to life, but he cannot sustain it. He cannot teach it, stay with it, help it to learn and understand the world it has been brought into. Instead, it lives with no context, alone and unable to communicate with anyone unless taught sign language.

So Abel sits on the bus. His Reflections in the windows stare about the bus, along with the Reflections of every other human passenger that has ever ridden the bus. Let me repeat. Every window filled to the brim with the Reflection of every passenger ever. It’s terrifying. Abel doesn’t look at them. He can’t live with the horrible reality. He doesn’t want to face it. So instead, he looks to Cabel, his Shadow. At least, everyone only ever has one Shadow. Unlike a Reflection, a Shadow is born at the same time a human is born. It is their inextricable twin. Or… it would be if it bothered to stick around. Difficulties in communicating with such beings often drives them off to explore on their own. What is fearful is that Shadows are amongst the Figments that don’t die. It might be possible for a Shadow to kill another Shadow, but he has never seen it happen, and he hasn’t heard of any credible sources citing such an incident. So for everyone who was ever born, there is a Shadow. To think, the entire world’s population, as Shadows. There must be a way for them to die or else the world be overrun by them, right? They don’t die of old age, he doesn’t think. His great-great grandfather’s Shadow still attends their family reunions even though that Shadow’s Reference is long dead over a hundred years ago.

Abel hates leaving Babel alone for so long. The guilt eating him up from the inside. The bus stops again. Abel stands up. This is his stop. His Shadow, Cabel, follows him out. Abel strides down the crosswalk. Abel heads towards the ice cream parlor. The whalebone skeleton dancing above it always catches him off-guard. It has got to be the most consumptive power of monetary waste. It’s an authentic skeleton of an extinct creature. Whalebone parlor still has the best ice cream. They advertise prehistoric recipes. How? The secret lies in a criss-cross pattern of Figment civil rights. It’s an anomaly. An ice cream parlor run by Figments. Shadows and Reflections run the upper management of the franchise. Where they get enough whalebones to create a full skeleton over every site is absurd. 2D Figments help newcomer Figments by teaching recruits the dead languages of primitive human sign-language. Then 3D Figments, many of which are ancient. Figments long since eroded from the creations of long-lost humans. Thus the majority of the employees are 3D Figments that are only a few human generations old. Many of which are those that have escaped or have been freed from the slave labor that everyone knows exists behind the scenes. Since the creation of a Figment is simplicity itself, and making sure that it can’t do anything to retaliate is almost as easy. The real trick is getting them to do what you want. Some Figments can die. If you shatter the frame where a Reflection or 2D Figment resides, it will kill as far as we can tell. A similar destruction applies to 3D Figment. Destroy the structure that makes it up, or morph it until it no longer resembles its Reference in any way has also proven to end the life of a Figment. The Deranged are said to be killable. They are harder to kill then most 3D Figments since being made of the same material of their Reference, a Deranged must be radically altered, usually chemically, in order to no longer resemble their Reference to the point of no longer remaining alive and animate. In this sense, it is possible to kill a human. First, you damage them until they become Deranged, then they radically alter its chemistry until it can’t move anymore. But Shadows? Unless the stories that Shadows can kill others Shadows is true, and he has almost no reason to believe this to be the case, then Shadows are the one Figment that is truly immortal.

All other Figments other than Shadows can be forced into servitude under threat of death. The main issue is for companies to teach language and communication to the Figment slaves. If a Figment escapes or rebels, it is killed. Teaching them language so you can teach them their job takes time, but by a cost-benefit analysis, they can only mess up so many times before the corporation is better off just killing it. But Shadows and 2D Figments are generally useless for companies and corporations because they have no physical presence, and thus cannot perform slave labor. Deranged are too unpredictable and hard to destroy. So 3D Figments made specifically for the purpose of manual labor are the largest make-up for the workers.

But sometimes, some of them escape. Or they are sometimes freed. There are times when the company that owns them goes out of business and doesn’t want to spend the funds to destroy the 3D Figments that they created when they are already financially under the water. Thus, the Whalebone Parlor has many of their employees, escaped or freed or released from these slaver companies. Human governments have a hard time determining morality and laws for slavery using Figments. But some Figment franchises like Whalebone Parlor utilize these ex-slave Figments. They’ve learned new skills. They now serve ice cream at a reputable chain.  Some people are a bit concerned. Figments. Inhuman automatons that do not eat, nor ever need to. They have served as slaves and thus probably do not have the best view of humanity. And they are the ones serving ice cream? A food to humans? Paranoid humans fear poison. What’s to stop them from killing their customers? Well, the answer is simple. Threat of destruction for one. A Human that goes on a murder spree would be shot down without hesitation. Figments have even less rights, so their destruction is pretty much guaranteed if they so much as harm a human, even accidentally. Additionally, their life would be ruined if they harmed their customers even though something more subtle like poison, since they would no longer have customers. Figments don’t eat. Humans eat. Humans are the ones that would be their customers.

What am I even talking about right now? Oh, yeah. Abel walks into the Whalebone Parlor. He wonders what Figments would even do with money. They can survive without any of the maintenance that humans require. Especially since these are ex-slaves, made to require as little maintenance as cost-effective. Abel feels a bit embarrassed for thinking like that. He technically needs very little maintenance as well. Humans need shelter and food. But right now he’s at an ice cream parlor. Dessert serves no purpose in human survival. It is purely for luxury or recreation. If he is willing to spend money on something like that, then why wouldn’t Figments also have a use for money?

Abel forces himself to not be so uncomfortable around the employee Figment. Abel signs his desire for the Leviathan’s Maw. It’s a banana split. It’s the appearance of the gaping face of some extinct sea creature. If it had been a living human, it would have been a Figment. But since it’s of an inhuman creature and one that is long since dead, it is inanimate. Not a Figment. Good thing too. It would be terrifying to produce a food that was a Figment. To do so would be a crime against Figment rights. Abel has read the news. He knows that there is unrest concerning Figment rights. A food Figment by the Reference of a living human would be terrible as the food would perish, and the Figment would die of itself in a short time span.

Abel pays the necessary cash for the Leviathan’s Maw. Abel savors the dessert. He feels self-conscious about eating since the Figments that made his food are incapable of eating or tasting the very food they make.