Vagrancy

May 8, 2013

I walk through the white corridors of the shopping mall, feeling all alone as I push my way through the hordes of mindless consumer zombies. Fourteen year old girls dressed like adult porn-stars, I sigh, but my eyes linger. Gross.
I continue walking, their faces fade and I glide past the stains of human-kind. I catch a glimpse of someone. That guy again. I see his fat face and neck beard and he stares, smiling creepily at me as he walks past, every time I see this guy he says hi. I have no idea who the fuck he is. Maybe I went to College with him?
Memories flood back of college, every morning I would awake to the fart alarm, right on time, 7:30 every morning my roommate would fart. She was so thin, so small, I could never believe how she could produce such noises.
I awaken from my flash back and find myself still moving. The neck beard out of sight. I continue my way through the labyrinth of shops. Am I searching for something? Or am I just hoping something will find me.
I see an adult man drift by. Perhaps he is me in the future. Perhaps I never leave this place, perhaps time is distorted and everyone is just an alternate version of me?
I buy a coffee and take a seat.
I take a sip. And then another. God I’m good.
I’m the King. I’m the best.
I finish my coffee. What had I been thinking? My own thought process forgotten to me. I frown, and glance over at the nearby table. A young fat girl stares at me while she eats her chips. I have to move. Her piercing gaze upon me feels like an actual force, pressing against me. I stand up and turn to go the opposite way. I see a beautiful girl standing before me, she smiles. I turn and hurry in a completely different direction.
I have.. uh… well, a problem. I make my own life miserable.
I always fall in love with girls who don’t even know I’m alive. Girls I have no hope with. And it makes my life hell.
I pine over them. Think about them night and day. My mouth feels dry and my stomach queezy when near them. But they’ll never know. I’ll never tell them.
I soon wander into a DVD store. I look at mindless cliche and mind-numbingly dumb entertainment marketed to the grazing masses, the sheep in human clothes.
I find myself staring at a movie. Volcano with Tommy Lee Jones. I’ve never seen it, but I stare at the DVD. I love the word Volcano. It is easily the best word in the entire English language.
Because the first thing that happens when you hear it is you picture a Volcano. A big black mountain lava pouring out the top, black smoke rising from it. Instant visualization. It’s a word that actually is an object. See-able, hear-able, touch-able, smell-able. Secondly it’s not pretentious. It’s not some big long fancy word pretending to be sophisticated. It is what it is. Finally the structure of the word. Volcano, I mean, there’s nothing else that sounds or looks like it.
You’re not going to get it confused and say another word that sounds similar, you’re not going to forget what it’s called, and you’re not going to use any other name to say what it is. It is simply ‘Volcano’ and I think it’s brilliant.
I wander around the store and some girls my age walk by.
I smile to myself. Could destiny be calling? I glance over and see them looking at awful films and even worse shows. I hear them talk about them as if they’re masterpieces. I shed a tear and leave the store continuing my vagrancy around the mall.
Not knowing how long it will take, I hum a tune to myself and slip into the realm of my imagination.

The Oncoming Storm

January 11, 2012

The Gods, they whisper to me.
Sweet serenades, seducing my soul into sempiternal slumber.
Silently the world fades to the efflorescence beat of the Gods’ hearts.
I awaken to the burning of my abode. The Gods lullaby, ephemeral.
I hear the screams of the Wood-Folk as the barbarians attack.
The glamour of the God-Song ended. Ineffable beauty never to be heard as the men with steel-arms burn our homes.
We conflate together as we are surrounded. The children cry as the men of steel spit and sneer.
Denouement received as I awaken from my nightmare.
Harbinger of the God vision, I inform my brothers and sisters of the Oncoming Storm.
We flee through the thick labyrinthine forest.
Hearts in our throats, we say goodbye to the Gods, to our homes, and to our lives.

The Gods, they whisper to me. Too silently now…
I yearn to hear them.

‘What If?’

November 3, 2010

The cold concrete steps beneath me as I sit, watching the passers by.
My train has not arrived yet.
She walks down the stairs across the platform with her friend.
Her blonde hairs falls from her head, lush and graceful.
She tries to walk across the platform and I smile. She cannot walk in heels.
She looks at me and we smile at each other.
I continue to sit as a cool breeze blows against my neck.
I remove my hat and shuffle my hands through my hair. The breeze is nice.
I pull my phone out and inspect the time.
There is still time.
Still time until my train arrives.
I glance over at the girls, I see them glance back and giggle.
I smile to myself and change the song on my iPod.
Children finishing school rush past me, yelling at each other.
I cannot hear them but watch as they race in time to my music.
A freight train passes as I tip my head back against the white poles along the stairs.
I close my eyes and let go.
I feel the wind and the sound of a fading freight as I slip away from reality.
The train passes and the song changes. I check the time.
I still have time.
The girl gets up and begins to walk over, I could swear she looked at me.
But my cynicism tells me she will pass.
She is next to me now. I see her smooth white legs in front of me.
My heart beats.
Could she stop?
She stops. She turns and kneels down next to me and begins to talk.
I remove my headphones and talk back.
She is beautiful.
And we chat friendly. I wonder how this could happen, and why, and my heart races.
I mumble and say everything wrong.
I panic under pressure.
I try to take in all the information, but my brain is lapsing.
What did she say her name was?
It was like a dream and when you wake, try as you might to remember, it slips falling through a void.
A void where you can never reach it, in the empty crevices of your mind.
I try to remember. But I can’t. It’s like trying to catch wind with your hands.
Soon the time comes and the train arrives.
I wish I had more time.
I have forgotten, and no matter how far and wide I search I still cannot find what I am looking for.
If only the time on my phone moved in reverse.
If it gave me more time.
If I could have said what I thought, what I meant… what I truly felt.
Would that have been so wrong?
But time goes on. Forward. Seconds lead into minutes. Minutes lead into hours. Hours lead into days.
And the next time you wake you lose a little bit more.
Sometimes I wonder… when we die… do we perhaps live again?
Do we simply relive life, over and over again, without the knowledge that this has all happened before?
With that dying thought being ‘What If?’
With no memory we repeat our lives. Repeat our mistakes.
But with that nagging feeling in the back of our minds.
Has this happened before?
Or was it, perhaps, a dream?

Faces in the Dust

September 20, 2010

I stood alone in the empty room. Dust lined the floor and walls; it floated around me as I walked across the room. I sneezed, as a line of dust shot from my nose. A small beem of light shot into the room like a laser through a crack in the wall. The dust seemed to spiral through the line like a magnet.
I ponder to myself as to why this room was here. The house had been abandoned 70 odd years ago. Yet every room still had some semblance to why it was there. You could tell which room was the kitchen or a bedroom. But this room, isolated and empty, what was it here for?
I turn around examining the floor of the room, and notice a slight groove on a spot the dust had cleared from my footsteps. I kneel down and sweep away the dust with my hands. I cough and splutter as clouds of it fly into my face. After a few moments I wave it out of my eyes and see what the dust had hidden so well.
The Trapdoor.
I stand up, tingling and feeling nervous in the stomach. I get Goosebumps on my arms and wonder what could be hidden down there, yet a sinister feeling creeps over me. Nothing good can come of hidden rooms…
Yet the feeling of curiosity was too strong, I had to know what was down there, what skeletons this family had been hiding.
That’s the problem, perhaps, with the human species, it delves into things that should not be meddled with, sticks its nose where it does not belong. A curiosity our species has developed and has often caused disastrous consequences. Yet without it, we would not be men.
I place my fingers around the edges of the rough wooden door, and begin to lift.
The wood feels damp around my fingers, but solid. It does not crumble and is curiously heavy, but soon I place it aside and stare, gaping at a long dark ominous pit.
The sinister feeling washes over me again, and I begin feeling nauseous. I breath heavily, trying to get my breath, but decide to leave the house for some fresh air, before proceeding down the hole.
After some fresh air and feeling back to normal besides the pain in my stomach, which I can only interpret as fear, I head back inside, pick up my torch, and drop myself down the hole.
It isn’t too deep, maybe a 3-metre drop. I turn my torch on and look around.
There are wooden pillars everywhere, but, like the room above it, every square inch is covered in 2cms thick of dust.
I walk to the nearest wooden pillar and brush some of the dust away. After a second or two my sight returns again. My eyes widen in shock and I get a feeling in my gut like I am about to throw up.
A thick bloodstain covers the pillar.
Rusted, dirty blood. Not clean blood. This wasn’t stained in the one instance, it must have taken place over many, and whoever’s blood it was, certainly hadn’t been freshly scrubbed.
I trudge from one pillar to the next. Each one stained with blood.
Finally at the end of the room I come to a little chest. I open it and reach inside. It is empty except for one photo frame. I pull it out and blow the dust off the photo. It is the same family I saw in the photo frames upstairs. Except here the photo has a different effect. The smiling on their faces isn’t friendly and inviting, its evil and sinister and looking at their faces makes me fury with rage. I feel like I wished they were alive, so I could kill them for what they had done to people down here.
Suddenly the room grows darker and as I shine the torch back I realise that the little light coming through the trapdoor is gone.
I trudge back and stare up. The door had indeed closed.
I jump and push the door, hoping to move it. But it’s no good from down here.
“Hello?!” I cry. “Hello is anyone there?!”
There is nothing but dreadful silence.

The Boats

August 2, 2010

The thunder roars outside. The rain pelting against the window as the wind howls. The house around me creaks, speaking in soft whispers. I lay in bed, staring wide eyed at my roof. I take nothing in. My mind is blank and I listen to the splattering of rain. The wind comes to a gentle still, picking up and howling again every few minutes; the music from nature inspiring me in my artifical tomb.
I hum gently along with the thunder and rain and close my eyes. My mind wanders as I imagine myself wandering through a muddy trail as the rain and wind beat against me, with the crashing of thunder in my ears. I splash through puddles as the lightning flashes giving me glimses of the muddy forest around me.
I have no aim, no destination.
Just the desire to walk.
Walk in the torrential downpour outside. To splash through muddy puddles.
Slowly the rain outside dies down… still with the hollowed whisper of the wind against my window.
The image in my head changes.
I am in a wet paddock. The dark moist grass around me makes me thirsty. The rain is still falling here. But less heavily.
I sit on a small rectangular stone, pearly white by the edge of a clear flowing stream. The wind gently blows my wet hair across my face and over my eyes as I gaze at the stream watching the water gently flow along… care free.
The rain outside my window picks up. I hear the pitter-patter of it falling onto the road.
My mind changes again, I am on the damp sand as the wind blows the rain, it falls on angles now, left and than right with the change of the wind, falling softly and slow and then getting heavier and soft again. I stare out at the ocean. The sun is going down in the distance. The ocean looks rough and ominous, and yet I feel the desire to throw myself into it. To be one with it all.
I sit down.
My hands and bum sink into the sand. The rain drips from the mournful clouds above and trinkles onto my shoulder. I stare at the ocean as it comes to a calm and a ray of light shines on it as a cloud moves out of the way. It doesn’t take long and soon sail boats are floating around lazily on the ocean. The air is still wet with rain and small droplets still fall…
I watch the boats.
My eyes are closed and the storm rages on and off outside.
I lay in bed, alive inside my head… and drift off to sleep.

Nostalgia

May 23, 2010

Burning nostalgia.
So strong, intense, images searing through the pages of time.
A memory so strong you can still smell it, still taste it.
Flashes, thoughts, building, becoming clearer, the fog fades, the crystal becomes glass.
Could a memory be so powerful you could go back?
Could you travel through the very fragments of your soul to a memory so intense that you can exist in it? Make changes?
Could you perhaps flip through your life like the pages of a diary?
Can you remember who you are?
Can you remember who you were?
Can you remember who you will become?
Can you stop me?

I’d like to see you try.

We measure time by the annoying tick of the clock. We measure by our tedious sense of boredom. We measure life from start to finish.
From fade in to fade out. Why not fade away?
Does a memory vanish with your mind?
Or can you relieve the great and wonderful. Find the mysterious.
Feel the love.
Feel the heat. Feel it burn. Feel your body burn.
Ravenous flames burning your diary, your book of life.
Ink melts and seeps through the pages. Your life becomes a muddled mess.
Memories meld together and you forget what was when.
Wake up in a memory. Forget the writings. Your diary is blank.
Rewrite history.