Out of Apathy Pt. 7

The air was calm and cool, hinting of the early autumn chill. The boat rocked and swayed as the water gently exerted itself against the port side of the boat in a hypnotizing, rhythmic fashion. The sun had hidden itself behind the horizon and the last of its residual rays disappeared. The velvet night sky was interrupted by the brilliance of the full moon hanging low on the horizon, seeming to rise up straight out of the ocean. It was larger than she had ever seen it before and seemed so close. She lost herself in its glory for a moment and nearly fell overboard reaching out to grasp at the glowing orb.

Despite the brightness of the moon, more stars that she had ever imagined could be seen. Lying down on the deck, she tried to soak up the scenery surrounding her. It filled her with such exuberance that she could hardly contain her joy, as if all these stars, so beautifully constructed, had been placed there just for her at this very moment. As she was breathing in there was a noise outside of the vessel. Sitting up and peering over the railing she could make out something floating in the water that resembled a slightly human form. “Salut?” she called out to it. Hearing no response, she called out again, squinting hard to try and make out what exactly it was. More splashing occurred and finally the light of the moon cast its gaze on the figure of a man floating on his back drifting away from the boat.

The body didn’t appear to be at a loss of life, but was floating of its own accord. Though she could plainly see all the features of this man, she couldn’t discern his face despite her best effort. She felt compulsively drawn to this man, who was drifting further and further away from the boat. Her curiosity and the gravity that the man exuded were so great that she leapt into the water and began swimming after him. The water was strangely warm and felt pleasant around her body. Looking for her target, she engaged in pursuit, quietly skimming through the water. She was astounded how effortlessly she traversed, almost as if she were swimming right through the air. Yet, the faster she went, the farther away he was. After struggling for what seemed like an eternity she gave up the chase and turned over to lie on her back to stare at the sky. To her great surprise there was a sudden warmth around her and a feeling that she couldn’t describe and the man was right next to her. Hearing his breathing and the water splashing against his body, she turned to look at the face of the person she had been so vigilant for. But before she had the chance to see his face the loud singing of a drunk outside her open window roused her from her sleep.


Looking about in the dark, her eyes were unable to focus on the clock to check the time because of her sudden arousal. Her throat was parched and she got up to quench it. Like a lion let loose from the cage, she threw the covers off and bounded across the room. The air had grown cool from the open window, and she wanted to make her trip as quick as possible so as to not catch a chill. In the dark of the room, she lost her footing and stubbed her toe on the dresser next to her bathroom door. The throbbing pain surged its way up the nerves in her leg causing her whole foot to tremble from the sudden jolt. As she fell forward she grabbed onto the door to the bathroom and regained her balance. When the lights flickered on she shut her eyes quickly to avoid the burning of her unadjusted pupils.

Standing there, after the ordeal with her foot, she had forgotten why she got up in the first place, and it wasn’t until she saw the glass sitting on the counter that she remembered she was thirsty. After drinking her fill of the luke-warm tap water, she made her way back into the room and over towards the window again to shut out the, now cold, night air. On her way to the window she looked back over to check the time again, now that she was fully awake, but as she stared hard at the red blur on her nightstand she couldn’t make out any digits. Rubbing her eyes she looked again and still couldn’t make anything out. Chalking this anomaly up to the trauma of the bright bathroom lights, she continued on her way to the window.

As she approached the window, it occurred to her that there wasn’t any chill at all from the window and that there wasn’t even a breeze moving through. This was odd as there was always a coastal breeze blowing through the window. Stepping closer to the window, she looked up at the sky and the familiar stars that she often stared at from this spot, but was struck by the image that she saw.


Yet another oddity occurred to her looking up at the deep velvet sky. The starry night appeared as if a late 19th century impressionist had painted it. The deep black of the night backdrop was replaced with dark blues and purples in great swirls like windswept leaves. Amidst these great curls of color were bright and huge stars with sharp accentuated points, the stars were so large and vibrant that she thought if she reached out they would cut her hand. But the most astounding feature of this odd night was the outstanding size of the moon. Like a huge plate it hung in the scene of the night, consuming almost the entirety of her area of vision when she looked directly at it.

The moon’s features were soft and the usual definitions of the craters couldn’t be seen. Instead there was a blending of light and dark areas with no real edges to speak of, and even the outer rim of the moon itself seemed to just fade into the background. Other buildings surrounding her home, which normally existed at the same level as hers, were far beneath her and she looked down upon their rooftops almost seeing straight through them at the people inside the homes. As she leaned farther out the window to look at the streets below and watch the late night wanderers walk by looking like ants that have lost their way. She leaned back to stand back up in her window when she realized that she was no longer standing in her room.

Turning around she could see the room that she had been in moments ago, and not only that, but she could see herself still standing in the window looking out into the night. Despite this incredibly strange scenario she had become involved in, she didn’t feel the slightest bit of alarm or fear. In fact, she felt perfectly comfortable looking at herself in the window, as she began floating back away and towards the sea.

Out of Apathy pt. 6

This girl has been encountered before, though her scent has never been smelled, the taste of her lips has never greeted the eager palate, nor her touch been felt caressing the skin. Through the lens of another admirer, her image has been seen and recorded into a permanent memory. She exists as both a real and imagined persona, but neither of these two has communicated with each other. The imagined is being searched for, while the real will be the end result of the search. Full knowledge of this is kept in its rightful place within the mind, but the prospect seems so great that, though disappointment is a grim possibility, it fails to hinder the progress in any way. In all actuality the real persona is more than could ever have been imagined. All the pedestals and ideals of this female have fallen short of her grandeur. Her looks are unmatched by even Dante’s Beatrice, who guided him through the paradisio and into the warm glow of his God.

Pale skin compliments her unnaturally dark locks, which must be kept up once every waxing and waning period, and also allows the brilliance of her eyes to be seen from across an eternity. When those eyes attach themselves to another a temporal anomaly occurs and everything surrounding the two parties begins to slow to a stop. During this lapse in time (that one could only wish to last forever, but ends despairingly too soon) all the sensations of the world course through eager veins. All the senses become consumed by the eyes of this girl and become amplified to the point of exasperation and utter ecstasy, and just when the body nearly convulses from this sudden flood of emotional captivity, the gaze is broken and time resumes its natural course. It is amazing how two organs used to view the world can have such an effect on someone. After all, what are eyes? Nothing but two liquid covered hollow orbs of tissue, and in most cases are regarded as unpleasant to the touch. Yet the eyes have an amazing power like that which was described. Beyond the simple gravity of the eyes, they also provide a way of determining many different things about a person.

Emotions and personalities are conveyed through many facets, but can be hidden from nearly everything except the eyes. Staring into these “mirrors”, as an author once called them, anger, lust, love, happiness, the entire array of humanness can be seen. Memories are stored in these pools, an entire lifetime of dreams, hopes and aspirations, all residing inside something so seemingly trivial. What a marvel the eyes are! And the eyes of the young girl tell the story of someone who has been hated, abused, forgotten, lusted after, and left behind. Though she hides the trials of her life well, there is no cloaking them within the realm of her emerald windows to the soul.

As her laughter subsides, the girl looks deep into the night sky at the stars and takes a deep breath. She holds the cold air in her lungs as long as she can before breathing it out slowly with a content smile upon her face. The air making its way slowly out of her throat and across her lips makes her feel alive. A night like this is one she will always remember, when she feels filled with the world, filled with all the life that it contains. The surroundings brimming with the things that make life worth living, the color of the sky, the movement of the trees, the sounds of conversation in the cafe down the road; all the things in the world teaming with life in all its brilliance. She sees this and realizes that each and every thing is so beautiful; from the dirt in the ground, to the trees, to the people who inhabit the earth. With all the differences in appearances, species, even the type of thing itself (i.e. trees, rocks, people, animals) everything comes from the same thing, the stars. Every atom that makes up a person, a mountain, or anything on the terrestrial sphere originates in the heart of the solar nebula. In this sense everything is connected and is full of the same life and existence. Everything is one and the same, and every person is in one-way or another the same as another person.

This idea has a profound effect on the girl as she breathes the air out of her lungs, which will feed the plant life, which will expel the oxygen she needs to survive. And upon her death, she knows that her body will become the fodder to sprout all kinds of new life and continue the cycle on and on. Knowing simply and absolutely these facts of life, she can't help but feel so energized about being alive, and ready for anything that might come her way. She knows that every stumble she has along the way only helps her to value this gift more. This night air also has an added feature that is somewhat strange, but makes her feel even more giddy and excited to see what the days ahead will bring. Placing the bookmark back into her book she decides to go to sleep early on this night and dream of the things to come.

Her bed is plain and seemingly uninspired, but on the contrary it isn’t the dressings on it that show its true colors. The adventures, romances, and tragedies within the sheets, in that state of slumber, are what design the beauty of it. Kneeling in front of the bed she begins her nightly prayers. These are general run of the mill prayers of the common believer: praying for the well being of her family and those close to her, for the unfortunate who cannot pull themselves out of the situations they have been encumbered in and placing a special addendum about this strange feeling that has come over her, asking for clarification. The strange thing about her prayers is that no one ever taught her about the Bible (Koran, Torah, Bahavad Gita, etc.) or took her to church, her idea of God developed of its own accord, not a sudden realization, but a process over a lifetime. For her there was always a lingering feeling that something was always over her shoulder, keeping a watchful eye on her actions. Not in the sense that it was interfering on or against her behalf, but was just watching, like the loving eyes of a mother whose child struggles with forming its words or trying to stand on its own.

So she began to pray, not for things in a direct sense, but simply for guidance in decisions important in her life. Whether or not this really had any affect, it gave her a feeling of self-assurance and the confidence to proceed with what she felt was right. She scarcely has time to place her head on the pillow before that dark veil of sleep consumes her. However, the blackness of her eyelids closing is brief, for her dreams come so rapidly that she scarcely has time to ward off the image of her room before they begin. An almost seamless transition occurs. One moment she is in her bedroom, the next she is on a boat out at sea.

Out of Apathy pt. 5

Speeding down the road, the mind races with questions about this decision and its justifications, but if termination is inevitable then there is no purpose in wading through the dense sea of irritated drivers. Furthermore, something else has occurred, like the light switch that kick-started creation. The burden of daily drudgery has finally broken its precipice and tumbled, but rather than allow this to cause collapse into demise, it has alleviated the weights that hindered the spreading of wings to soar away from this dismal existence. An idea to leave behind everything of the past, excluding only the current surroundings, and evolving into something greater and more fulfilling, much like a butterfly giving up its ground crawling ways to grow wings and fly. There is only one need from the past, the one thing that will be strived for to help with this process, something that will help to create this new existence.

The wind seems to be pushing the vehicle as if it has become invigorated by this decision. With the windows down it howls in applause and sings a sweet melody of approval. Upon arrival at the domicile, the car is left running outside, while this intermediate mission is accomplished. Inside the article is quickly identified and procured; a profound sense of joy is felt in this occurrence. The feeling that this is something worthwhile is consuming, spreading like a drug through the bloodstream, causing the fingertips to tingle and respiration to become more rapid. It is the picture of the young female, the same female from the dream, the one person that has been sought after for so long without any knowledge. She has transcended a mortal existence becoming something spiritual and enigmatic. No, not becoming, she has always been. It is not her that is changing. Her being has remained dormant all this time, until the right moment when the two paths would collide in a brilliant crash. Is this destiny? That seems to be the only explanation for a scene such as this. If it is destiny then there was never a choice in the matter, and somehow this event had to occur. This idea is a double edged sword because it makes one feel out of control of the decisions of life, and that some outside puppet master is pulling all of the strings, but on the other hand it is comforting to know that some reciprocal part has been created to fill all of the subtle empty spots in this existence.

These two beings begin on separate paths that converge to a point and merge into one. It is comforting to know that loneliness will always be temporary. Some might ask about those that never find their destiny and wind up alone and miserable? From a mortal perspective this is a most distressing idea, but one that shouldn’t be the cause of so much worry and vein searching. Life has no beginning or end, like energy it can neither be created nor destroyed; it is a continuum, constantly changing its states with each passing lifetime. In the same way love holds no boundaries within such a human idea as time, it exists and longs to be found throughout existence. Though the paths may take many lifetimes to converge, eventually they become one and create bliss unlike any dream. It is true that one day the bliss must end because of the beginning and ending of life cycles, but no matter how far the paths separate, they will always converge again in their own cycle. Looking at the picture, no more thought to the future is necessary because the knowledge of what needs to be done is already inborn, and the car speeds back off into the night towards the horizon, with a blissful tune in the air.


The city lights begin to fade in the background and as they do the amount of stars in the sky grows and grows until there seems to be more sparkling white than velvety black. Shades of purple and red provide the backdrop in the cloudy atmosphere of the Milky Way. Times like these make a convertible car the most useful because one can feel as though she is surrounded by the night sky, instead of only being able to admire it through the dimensions of a few small windows. Traveling eastward the shoreline is a long way away, but the sudden decisions and realizations have provided the energy necessary for such a journey. Fatigue will surely be ignored tonight through sheer excitement of new ideals. No amount of caffeine or any other stimulating drug could provide the sensation of accomplishment. It is a high that cannot be made by man synthetically, but is produced only naturally through actions.

By fulfilling some sort of self-important duty, the mind goes into a type of euphoric state in which it feels invincible and able to tackle anything. Perhaps this is why those who create tend to create much. Their accomplishments give them the energy and ability to achieve more and more, while the person who allows himself to stagnate never amounts to anything. It seems that action is the key to all advancement; it is the only thing that makes any sense. This must be why the toil of daily work rituals has been going on so long, and why misery has been the pervading emotion for many years. Never was any action taken to change it, to attempt to create something new or participate in something different. Just like Immanuel Kant had his reading of David Hume to awaken him out of his “dogmatic slumber”, that one incident of immense frustration seems to have jumpstarted a dormant mind full of desire, but stuck in neutral. Looking over the picture of the girl can be seen and her words are repeated over and over, “Où es-tu m'amour? Pourquoi m'as-tu trouvé encore?” The image of her lips speaking those words is still vivid and drives itself even further into the mind in this state. The accelerator is pressed to the floor and the powerful 8-cylinder engine roars as the car gives an inertial lurch and speeds off into the night, while the words, “I’m coming for you love. Don’t worry. I’ll find you…” are spoken and trail off behind the car.


Somewhere far off, across an ocean, a soft breeze is blowing through the window of a single room apartment and tossing the piceous hair of the femme des rêves. Wrapped in a blanket she sits alone in her room reading to herself aloud as she so often is found doing. This habit of reading aloud has made her the subject of much abuse throughout her lifetime because of petty children, and even adults who could be considered children, who think that this makes her slow or unable to comprehend the words. In all truth she prefers the words spoken rather than thought because in this way she is able to speak the words of the characters and thus place herself more into their position, feeling the emotions that course from the author’s pen onto the page. It is therapy for her, this nightly reading. Doing things in this way allows her to escape the drivel of day-to-day life and place herself in some extravagant situation or in the arms of someone who truly cares about her.

At times the situations can become so real that she finds herself genuinely in love with the characters, only to be heartbroken when the final page is turned and the story is over. The breeze caresses the curves of her neck and wraps itself around her nape slithering its way down her back. A cold chill creeps up her spine and she is startled by the tingling sensation, like electricity, throughout her body. The pupils of her eyes dilate causing the brilliant green to become not much more than a sliver around the deep black pool of her pupil. Standing up she shivers and walks towards the window to look out at the night sky.

The air outside has an odd sensation within it, and she feels as if something is changing. Looking upwards at the stars, a certain pattern seems picked out and chosen to be brighter than the rest. What the pattern is isn’t discernable, but she notices it just the same and mumbles softly as she returns to the chair to resume her reading. Though she is usually so entwined with her book’s storyline that nothing can disturb her, tonight she is mysteriously elsewhere. Unable to pinpoint why everything is different on this night her face scrunches into a confused expression. Seeing this look upon her face in the mirror she begins to laugh at herself because of the ridiculousness of both her uncalled for anxieties and the pout she is making.

Out of Apathy pt. 4

Silent as the tomb of a long dead memory encapsulated in the furthest regions of the cerebellum, the car ride is agonizing because of the labor to come, but relieving due to the chance to ponder so many questions. Along the road there are no street lights, the glow of the headlights fills the dark void in front of the vehicle, showing the yellow painted line down the middle of the road to keep people from swerving off course. The shining horizon is lit up by city lights; an eerie purple glow fades into the inky black void as the sky climbs higher and higher. A metaphor perhaps on this existence here on the Earth, looking up there is a desolate expanse littered with widely dispersed specks called stars, but down below is a vibrant glow of life and happenings. Then why does it seem so dead down here and so alive up there? Looking at the sky during prehistoric times must have been a sight because there was nothing to hinder their brilliance from the eyes. Painted in various shades of purple, red, and blue with a black background, the night sky would have been marvelous. It is too bad that things like that are largely only imagined for most people because of the rapid expansion of civilization.

Traveling down the road, it becomes brighter and brighter as the city approaches, a sprawling metropolis complete with everything the consumer needs. Sex is available for purchase on most corners, as well as drugs, and one can severely inebriate himself to the point of unconsciousness, such is the existence of so many unhappy people. There are so many warnings prohibiting such activities, but it is a continuing occurrence and one can only ask why would people keep up their self abuse? Perhaps it is to escape the banal of their day-to-day lives. Unhappiness can have a profound effect on the weak willed, and absolution seems to be the most enticing offer presented. Many blame their God for making their lives miserable because they need a scapegoat and are not willing to recognize their own faults. God cannot be blamed, it is merely the creator of all things, and, though its energy exists in all things, it endowed humans with free will to make their own decisions. Just because God doesn’t come and fix every person’s problems does not make them its fault.

This is a truly human aspect, not willing to accept blame for mistakes. Why is this so hard? Why don’t people realize that by accepting their mistakes they can then learn from them for future reference? One makes so many mistakes in life, and there is no time for trivial dwelling. This is just one of the recurring ideas that the late night drive can provide. Is it the silence and loneliness that helps initiate these spiteful thoughts, or is it the world itself seeping through the pores within the cool night air that passes through the open window. A hand extended outside the window provides so many interesting thoughts. The wind dresses itself around the hand, surrounding it, holding it, and moving it in any direction it wants. Passing between the fingers and cooling the sweaty palms, it exists and yet doesn’t exist; it is there, but it isn’t. There is only the effect of the wind, but no real evidence of its existence. Such a beautiful idea, the wind, one can attempt to describe it, draw it, or picture it in their minds, but there is never a clear image because it exists and doesn’t exist at the same time in this world. The wind is somewhere before the beginning, but after the end. It flows through and around all things.

The routine night drive becomes a religious experience. It seems to be the only time to escape from the madness of the surrounding world because there is nothing for miles around except vast, unlit roadway. As the city approaches the stars fade and the night sky glows. The feeling of oneness dissipates, just like the stars, creating a feeling of anguish pulling hard against the chains of working life; a slave to the almighty dollar, to put it in a crude fashion, but in all actuality that is the only way to survive. Other systems that try to eliminate the capitalist way of life fail due to the factor of human nature, and so the toiling must continue. The shining red stoplight is a jolt back to reality, and a signifying mark that the realm of tranquility has been interrupted by the hustle and bustle of city life. Even at this late of an hour, the city is teeming with cars and people. It never sleeps. Like the human body, the city may enter semi-dormant periods, but it never truly rests. The city continues to consume and produce waste; it breathes out its noxious fumes and even changes the surrounding weather patterns. Concrete giants continue to grow and grow in an image some male architect’s fantasized fallacy. Ever expanding, it sprawls for hundreds of square miles, like a mountain peaked in its center and sloping downward.

The main drive is blocked with vehicles, stopped and lined up like inmates. There seems to be an accident far down the road. Further up the road a woman was diligently attempting to put on her make-up before her night on the town, while she was driving, and she happened to cross paths with a man who had just left a tavern with a few too many ppm of alcohol in his system. Both parties were at fault in this situation, but who is to blame? The man made poor judgment for deciding to drive when he knew her was inebriated, but the woman also miscalculated her own abilities by taking her eyes off the road and hands off the wheel to make sure that here eyeliner was just perfect for tonight’s hunt. Fault can’t be placed either way it seems, but it matters not because some outside force has decided that since they were both at fault, both should lose their lives. With this decision made for these two misguided individuals, the job that is being driven to may be lost as a result. Though this would be a legitimate excuse, there have already been numerous warnings given about being late. If the traffic doesn’t clear up in the next 15 minutes there would be no need for dealing with this overwhelming and strenuous part of the drive. Normally this wouldn’t be such a bad proposition, but bills are not able to pay themselves and some kind of monetary funds are needed to sustain life. Looking at the clock and realizing that there is no time to make the venture and then examining the cash content in the dirty jeans pockets, something snaps and the course changes. Finding a loophole the vehicle is quickly turned about and driven off back into the inky black night, away from the city lights and down the highway.

Out of Apathy Pt. 3

The Daylight has faded and the children have returned to their homes safe and sound, this time. With the sun now sleeping safely below the horizon the insect retires until the morning to begin its conquest once again. Everyone is sleeping soundly in their beds with fleeting dreams and nightmares to pass the time. The sounds of the world outside have died out and silence is the prevailing attribute to the cool night air. The distant chirping of the nocturnal crickets singing their tune out in a nearby field is the only sound causing a ripple in this silent pool. What an existence to be an insect such as a cricket. Resting during the days in a dark corner of the Earth, and rising at night to sing its tune to the world as if saying, “I exist! I am here!” Only to have its life snubbed by a roaming amphibian, reptile, or various other night crawler.

All at once the chirping ceases. Apparently one poor cricket did not survive the night and became consumed by something higher up on the food chain. The others look on in horror as their fellow chorus member is devoured, but after the terror fades they continue with their tune. What is higher on the food chain than humans? Surely there must be something because like space and time the pieces can be broken down into smaller and smaller pieces, as well as expanded on into infinity. By most standards humans are considered the apex of the animal kingdom, but something must consume humans (besides the occasional feral bear or various other animal attacks). Perhaps it isn’t a physical consumption like that of the cricket, but a spiritual and mental consumption. What being could accomplish such a task? This seems to be a much too close-minded question. The trials of life can consume a person. The heartbreak, the misery, and all of the other drudgery that life throws the way of the average individual can consume him. At the other end, things like power and money also consume a person by bending him to their will. Such things many don’t consider because of the standardized view, but looking into the faces of people one can see how their lives are slowly torn away from them and devoured by some unseen force.

This is the reason for this late night rendezvous, while others sleep someone must work, for the world never sleeps, but continues in an endless cycle. In particular the possessions of large conglomerates must be protected diligently so that they can continue to feed off of the lives of their peons. God must be a pessimist because the world seems to drift farther and farther into oblivion without signs of recovery. As with any situation not everything is bad all the time, but it seems to be on a downward track. Then again maybe it is humans who are pessimists and propagate that attitude, which in turn drives everything farther down. A lifetime of struggle and constant labor until the bitter end where nothing is left but to decay to the point of no return, and then there is relief? A final release superior to anything imaginable is this last breath of air, where some say the soul leaves the body measuring a total of 21 grams according to some statistics.

Turning to face the dark room, the same dingy pair of jeans and stained t-shirt for the habitual ritual of strenuous late night physical activity lay there on the floor. Shipments come and go knowing no time of day, they are constant due to the changing time zones causing alternating launch dates and times. Crates and boxes of all different shapes and sizes arrive from different locations throughout the world. A child’s toy that was made by another child in some poor country on one of the Asiatic islands travels more miles than either ever will in their life time; it passes through countless numbers of hands until it arrives onto the store shelf of some department store and waits to be plucked by a pleading child who will play with it for a week, and then forget about it. Meanwhile at the toy’s source the builder child will toil over another set of toys for a few cents a day in hopes of helping to feed the family. Seems like a sad story that one would hear late at night on an infomercial, but unfortunately it is all too true.

What is it like to be a young child who should be receiving an education, but has to work in order to put food on the table for the family because the extremes in financial prosperity are so far off? This kind of life is what attracts so many people to the ideals of socialism or communism. An equal pay for every family, a plot of land, and everyone contributes to the greater whole of the community. Sounds like a utopian civilization. The only problem is that humans by nature cannot maintain such an ideal because most everyone wants more than their neighbor or just wants what someone else has. “Beware the green eyes of envy…” Thus the power struggle begets the entire system and it collapses. If capitalism doesn’t work and neither does communism, then what will? It seems this question is unanswerable. So the daily grind must continue because the current location advocates a capitalist way of life, and in order to survive one must conform.

The dirty set of clothes is quickly put on as the punch-in time is rapidly approaching. Outside the air is cool and crisp and there is a slight breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. The sky is completely clear without even a trace of clouds. This night is moonless due to the rotation of the earth with the orbiting of the moon, so the stars shine brilliantly in the sky. Certain constellations, like Orion, can be seen due to the time of year, and the staple of them all, the big dipper, is high in the north. Because of the closeness to the light pollution caused by the city lights, the painted clouds of the Milky Way, as well as countless more stars, cannot be seen. This is a disappointment, but one that must be suffered through because this location is where the work is. Stopping and breathing in the night air while staring at the sky it is quite easy to become lost, but it is through sheer force of will that the car is started and driven off down the road towards those sky polluting lights.

Out of Apathy pt. 2

The blinds resume their steady flowing position once the wind dies down outside, and the sudden brilliant glow that lit up the room dissipates back into shards of light peeking through the slats. One of the beams skimming through falls onto a picture pinned to the wall. A picture of a girl standing alone in a park looking at the sky with her hand shielding the blinding rays of the sun from her squinting eyes. Her hand points to something off of the picture with determination to catch someone’s attention, but also with an affectionate tilt of her arm. She is dressed rather shabbily, but comfortable. The clothes hang loosely from her slender frame, and her sweater is slightly off kilter, revealing one of her shoulders. Not one’s typical idea of a pretty girl, but beautiful in an unconventional and undeniable fashion. Even though the bright gaze of the sun burns her eyes and causes contortions in her expression, her smile stands out from beneath her hand like a red rose on a snow bank. No ordinary smile, but one that sucks the breath right from the lungs, one that mesmerizes in a single glance and one that cannot be ignored. Her stance is slightly crooked with her toes pointed inwards towards each other, pigeon-toed, giving the appearance of discomfort or nervousness.

Was the girl aware of her picture being taken, or was this a candid photo of a random stranger? The truth was that the picture was found lying on the street before anything could scar and distort its artistry, so nothing could be gathered about the background of the image. The only thing that could be learned from it was the writing on the back that said, “La petite fille, tu es tres belle…” What do these words mean? Was it a lover of hers or just a wandering admirer? These are questions that are almost impossible to answer in any accurate fashion and can only be speculated on. Is it possible to love someone just from a picture? From the image, a life is created that can be entirely inaccurate, but wholly satisfying. It is true that one can speculate much about a person’s personality by their body language, dress and appearance. For this particular “petite fille”, she is perceived to be of a lower-middle class background, she is demure and soft-spoken. She doesn’t have many friends because she doesn’t trust many people and fears their judgment, but she likes many people from afar. Her favorite pastime is to go to a park and watch groups of people converse or otherwise go about their daily lives. She likes to pretend that she is there, part of the group, laughing along with them because she lacks the fortitude to actually attempt to speak with them. Sometimes she is caught laughing along with them by passersby who take her for being slightly off balance. Most of her time is spent at home reading, where she can travel off to far away places, meet interesting people, and go on exciting adventures without ever needing to subject herself to the torment of leaving the comfort of her home. This is the story that has been created for the girl in the picture because it suits her, and brings comfort in the idea that there may be others who think this way, a mirror image and a companion.

Apparently this sudden upright position that has been assumed was a mistake due to the after effects of severe discomfort and loss of vision. Falling back to the pillow with a satisfying sigh as the visible world recollects itself, but just as quickly dissolves into a warm fluid dream state. Random encounters with people throughout a lifetime pass by in fragmented images giving incoherent messages that are never to be remembered, but hold the answers to all of the questions to be asked. Such a cruel joke placed on mankind, to be given all of the evidence, the facts, and the reasoning for every question imaginable, but to have it just out of reach because of the waking moment’s deletion of these mid-slumber awakenings. This could be compared to a physicist’s finding of her grand unified theory, and placing it strategically onto a chalkboard only to have it erased during the nightly cleaning. Yet the human mind is totally ignorant of the absorbed facts during the night and thus has no reason to dismay unlike the struggling physicist. Why does this seem to happen? When one is dreaming it can be called an out of body experience for many reasons. That seems too limiting though for it is almost like an out of world experience. The waking conceptions of time and space are thrown to the wayside and perhaps a hundred lifetimes can be lived in only five minutes of “real” time. This sort of thing is something a four dimensionally constrained brain could not possibly deal with other than in imaginative speculation without any real acceptance.

Perhaps there is something much more significant going on in dreams and the brain simply does not want it to be remembered out of some sort of fear. But a fear of what? Wandering through the dream like a lost child in the woods, so much information is thrown upon the already burdened soul that it is a wonder one mind could bear such a bombardment. Suddenly there is calm and all of the incessant voices cease, and the surrounding space dims to a complete darkness. A figure slowly makes its way out from the shadowy infinity glowing seemingly of its own accord. It is the silhouette of the pictured and framed female walking forward staring at her shoes and chewing her lower lip in concentration of some great mystery. She looks up and her lips begin to move forming the words before they are spoken. Her voice drifts out like a cool breeze on a summer afternoon, floating and making its way across the empty space, “Où es-tu m’amour? Pourquoi m’as-tu trouvé encore?” Placing her head back down in its contemplative position she turns and makes her way back off into the darkness, chasing her is futile because she exists somewhere far off and out of reach. Then there is nothing again, but solitary confinement in an endless void of nothingness. Some say this is what hell is like, no fire and brimstone, just endless nothingness and eternal contemplation in the absence of the creator. Such an idea would truly be a most unbearable torment due to the human need for companionship; even the most lonesome hermit would like to have someone around to exchange ideas with.

The desire for something to happen to end this silence is quickly subdued as the battery of information resumes, and those random images return. This scenario is almost like a brainwashing session involving taped eyelids and a screen projector, without any possibility for escape. No happy medium is ever reached in these dreams, two polar extremes continually occurring in intervals that seem endless. This makes sleep a most undesirable activity (or lack there of), but one’s eyes can only remain open for so long before they give way to the heavy weights hooked onto them with each passing moment. And then there is relief in the form of equally paced violent tonal bursts from the electronic alarm clock across the room beckoning to be shut off.

Out of Apathy pt. 1

Light slips through the cracks in between the Venetian blinds creating various geometric shapes along the expanse of the blank texture coated wall. The open window allows the soft breeze from out side to pass through these blinds and their projection begins to dance and twirl on the wall much in the same fashion as pirouetting ice skaters on the surface of a frozen lake. As the wind dies so too does the extravagant display of gentle movement and the linear images of the blinds resume their horizontal station. An insect can be heard outside furiously buzzing and slamming its exoskeleton-adorned body into the screen. What is its reasoning for persisting so? Or a better question does it even reason? Continually smashing itself against the unmoving obstacle until the exertion wears the poor thing’s energy supply to barely enough to still be able to perch itself somewhere and prepare to continue the endeavor when it has recharged. The screen never budges more than the flex created by the impact of the insect’s body. At one point, the insect will die and despite its best efforts that screen will still be there, standing defiant, impervious to the best efforts of such a “lowly” species. Beyond the seemingly futile struggle the sound of children laughing can be heard along with the patter of bare feet along the concrete sidewalk. These sounds draw closer until they pass right under the windowsill and down the path, their pitch descending as they drift farther away. It appears that Mr. Doppler was right. Another sound can be heard in the distance, it is the sound of much commotion and jovial conversation.

Apparently there is a get together down the road, and these playing children’s parents are participating in all the binging involved. Who is watching the children? Right now it seems to be of little concern to those parents who are too busy fulfilling their own personal gratifications. Don’t they remember what happened to the little girl two years ago? That awful day, much like today, when the children were laughing and chasing each other about throughout the neighborhood while their parents inebriated themselves. A certain little girl must not have been paying attention when she was trying to avoid being taken hostage by the boys and a car coming around the corner captured her instead. From all appearances one would assume that she was fine because there were no visible signs of injury besides a few cuts and bruises, but an impact such as that can have devastating effects on such a young body. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, a clever smirk on her face as though she was dreaming of the boy chasing her still, but there was no movement in her narrow breast. Her essence had escaped from her upon impact and dissipated into the atmosphere. Is this accurate though? Perhaps it didn’t dissipate at all and instead maintained itself in shape traveling along the threads of creation in between what is visible and what is not. Scientists of late often speak of small subatomic particles coming in and out of existence right before their very eyes. There is something nonsensical about one’s essence breaking apart and evaporating like a body of water in the hot sun. After all, shouldn’t this be the one thing that cannot be disintegrated into component parts? For how could there be any such parts to make up something like a soul? By the very definition of it, the soul should be constant and never less or more. It was quite some time before the parents could be located and notified about the condition of their child. The driver of the car had frantically come running out of her car to see the child’s lifeless body. She exclaimed, “She just came out of nowhere! I tried to stop, b-but she was right there. There was nothing I could do. Oh my…” at this point she trailed off into tears and broken sobbing, her heart full of sadness and anguish over such a terrible circumstance. Upon finding out about the incident, the parents were devastated, not only by what had happened, but by what they thought to be the driver’s apparent irresponsibility for the accident.

Yet responsibility seems misplaced in this circumstance because of a few facts. For one, the parents were not attending their child, for another their house was the one on the corner and they had allowed the hedges in their yard to grow to a point where visibility was considerably reduced. True the driver should have recognized this and slowed, but not all of the blame was hers alone. And here they are again doing the same thing, and the rest of the parents are allowing their children to do the same thing that that little girl was doing just two yeas ago. Maybe the human mind isn’t so different from that insect outside the window.

Rising up to look around the dim room, light peering in through the blinds provides subtle hints of objects scattered about. Nothing of real importance, just the essentials for comfortable living: a bed, a desk, a laundry basket, a chair, and various other insignificant items. The only things that hold any real value are the books stacked high along one wall of the room. Organized in a most meticulous fashion, they are categorized, alphabetized, and kept dust free and clean. But these cherished items are far from in peak condition. A certain affinity exists for worn down and well used types of readings; books that hold stories of their readers as well as what the author placed in eloquent words on the page. Worn bindings, torn pages, stains, folds, handwriting and other novelties create an image of previous perusers, their habits, and perhaps even their lifestyle. Even some discoloration of the covers and spines can show where volumes have been stored and whether they were kept solely for appearances or their literary worth.

An example of this is a group of works amidst the stacks that has a particular pattern on it. When all eight of the volumes are lined up, one next to the other, in ascending order there is the shadow of a cross along the spine of all the books much darker in color than the surrounding areas. This leads to the belief that these were placed next to a window and left for an extended period of time, where the glow of the sun had the opportunity to exert its bleaching power, diluting the dark maroon color of the books. Another conclusion could be drawn that these books were not used very often, and may have been kept by an individual who merely wanted to show that he had them. People like this enjoy the pomposity that comes from the envy of others who feel mentally inferior to them. Yet this could be a hasty judgment because, after all, many people do enjoy reading during the evening hours, which would leave the books in their position day in and day out. It is just these sorts of speculations that make owning such things a grand experience. One has the opportunity to create his own story about the previous owners, making them a villain or a hero, and sending them on many harrowing adventures. Many probably don’t think of it this way though. Most probably just see it as a worn book, ravaged by the sands of time. These people don’t understand the history of objects, and the meaning that they hold for some. Someone’s ragged old book was someone else’s most prized possession. Why can’t everyone understand these facts?

As the wind from outside gusts, the blinds are pushed far into the room cascading sunlight across the floor that jets its way towards the books. When the light finally shines on them, the one new printed book can be seen. Albert Camus’ “The Stranger” stands out brightly colored among the dull, faded, surrounding titles. This particular story needed to be an original copy, with no one else’s memories embedded within it, the starting point for the story of the book itself. Every reader needs at least one of these types of books. Though one can add to his previously owned book’s history, knowing the beginning in at least one can be quite comforting because he might not know where it will go from there. This particular novel makes for a good starting point because the author’s ideas come out so vividly within the story, and lend to the varying interpretation of different readers. Therefore, the story possibly affects the reader’s life in a way that they change the way they are living, maybe even who they are or what they believe. Without the essence of someone else in the book, absorption of the author’s words can become that much easier, at least for those readers who delve into this historical idea.

It is true that some can gleam the ideas from the book without the consideration of anyone who previously read the copy by ignoring the notes on the sides, the tear-stains, the folds on the page and the underlined sections. They pay no thought to any of these substantial features’ significance because these “memories” hold no bearing on their lives. Does this limit the reading experience? In some respects perhaps it does by not taking in another perspective as a possible interpretation, but on the other hand this may be an easier way to become totally immersed within the story, the background of the book might just cloud what the author is trying to say. Perhaps it only depends on the novel because sometimes a well-worn book will have a more interesting story than the writing itself. In the end, these are all trivial facts that only a small percentage probably thinks about. What really matters most is what the reader thinks, but how can those who don’t know about these little ideas make a decision if they are never exposed to them? For some it may be that they do not even know what they are missing out on because no one has lit the flame underneath their curiosity to let them know that there may be more that they are missing.