Why do they keep on haunting me? The past should stay in the past. I cannot escape it. But surely there must be a way. How can I run away from that which cannot be actualized in physical reality. Perhaps this is my reality, for each individual reality is formed by each individual thought. Can it be? I think therefore I am? The torment is perpetual. The fear is neverending.
Vivid. Unsettling. Horrid. There must be a host of underlying issues that plague my subconscious mind. Past performance is an indicator of future performance, is it not? The strong desire for a pharmacological remedy merely points to addiction. My thoughts are not linear, nor should they be for the human mind is not organized in such fashion.
Damnation. Eternally damned to relive the errors of the past. There must be a way out. Death is a sweet release from this meager corporeal existence. My first attempt to delineate my thoughts in a very long time. I suppose my syntax has normalized to a more readable form. Examination of historical precedent is a soothing activity. What has happened has happened and will influence what will happen. These thoughts will seem juvenile and unenlightened to the audience of the future. Evolution is cyclical, as is history. The great philosophers of our time are no match to the sands of time, for we will advance and advancement precipitates obsolescence.
I do not matter. No single human being carries any material significance juxtaposed to the inconceivable dimensions of temporal gargantuity. The only meaning that my life has is the meaning that I give to it. And if that is so then I am truly insignificant.
The art teacher. The bank theft. The intimating depths of the sea. Arthur and the party. And the car. She is merely and extension of my own mind. And her interrogation, or more accurately my interrogation of me, and my refusal to submit, to answer can only be a resultant of fear. Odd that the theft was attempted twice. A clear opposition to the boundaries of acceptable social conduct. But why was it attempted twice? A preoccupation with gambling perhaps? The lack of innovation? Or a subconscious inclination of repeating past mistakes. Trying to surface for breath. Trapped beneath the surface of the sea, unable to see the light. And even after I rose, the sight of rotting ground was merely a slight improvement to the crushing depths and darkness of the ocean. Ostracization. Arthur you bastard. Parties not invited to. It wasn’t a car. It was a van. I don’t know what it means.
Rows of plastic blue chairs, patiently waiting for the assembly to start. I see them all, neatly categorized in their own little groups. Where shall I sit, where shall I go? The fear is profound. The fear is illogical. This is not how it happened. Yet the exaggeration is an accurate reflection of my emotions.
The reality sinks in. I see them in my dreams because I will never see them in reality again. Ever. I need to let go. I need to let their memories die. I need to kill them in my dreams. All of them.
Trinkets and toys, all of wooden make sit in front of me. I obsess over their placement on the table. The room is isolated from the world outside. Sounds of news reports permeate through the door, but I dare not venture past my room to ascertain its contents. I am idle on the Sabbath, the holiest of Jewish days. Should I not be with my fellow men breaking bed and drinking wine in merriment. But no, I have no fellows, I am one, I am alone, idly sitting in my room with my trinkets and toys.
