A gust of wind slaps my freshly shaved head as a metal door swings back to release me. Suddenly the world feels aggressive and alien. The lights are too bright yet the shade is too dark, the air is too harsh. It’s only because the wound is so fresh, I remind myself. I will adjust, I know.
A fool on the hill is muttering something about quantum theory only existing since we admitted to killing our own god. “You are living on waves of decay!” He rants, furious that no one is listening to him.
It has been years since these streets were packed full of commuters and consumers. A pang of nostalgia hits me whenever I think of the days when human contact was a near constant occurrence; such a juxtaposition to the desolate state of modernity.
With my fingertips I feel the row of stitches that hold the crack in my head together. The shock of it makes me grow fiery and I hurl the contents of my stomach into a waste bin. It will be worth it. Just two days, the doctor said, then I can turn it on. If I do it any sooner it is likely my brain won’t be able to adapt and I will be lost. Continue reading “A Cure For Loneliness”
Beneath the very particles of my being I was waves all along. My position in space and time was a lie; permanence was only ever an idea.
We talk of wave functions collapsing to form objective reality, but that is upside down and inside out. A wave function does not collapse, it is merely that we (the observers) give birth to illusions based upon its pattern.
For man to think he creates reality by observing it, that he is essentially God to small things, is only true in a superficial sense. It is an ego’s interpretation.
We perceive a reality we are equipped to understand. That is, a reality that makes use of the kind of sensory detectors we happen to have. A reality that shows objects to be at just one position in space and time at once; the position they are most likely to be in if they had to ‘choose’ given the data from all other things acting upon them. But outside of our minds, they don’t have to choose. In fact they don’t have to obey measurement systems at all, they simply are.
Upon realising this, I have become a quantum conductor. I forget everything I think I know and allow the waves to travel freely through my fingers, to make music upon me; and I interpret the resulting pattern for man’s instruments through my dance. I search for the part of me that conforms to the very essence of the music, because I love how it makes my presence in the moment crumble. To be wholly at one with the harmony of the waves around us is to be attuned to all places at all times. It is to be connected to every possibility outside of the consensus reality tunnel, and as such it cannot be accurately described, only understood.
To make something in wave form that is beautiful to us is the purest thing we can do, because it reflects the illusions we have created back into the language of the infinite. A religious man might say it is like telling stories to God in her language. I say the music itself is the most meaningful thing we have.
Fragments of Void is a collection of bite size creative writing pieces around the theme of nihilism and dark spirituality.
She lies on her bed thinking of him and what they could have been. He was cruel to her, she knows, but she admires the reason why. She longs to tell him that the life he chose was what she wanted all along; to be released from norms and social expectations, to roam as free as a bird with no connections and only the present moment to worry about. He was no good for her, he had said, he would lead her astray. But she wanted to be led astray. She wanted the excuse to experience colour and exhilaration instead of greyish and uniform. Take me with you, she had begged, I understand, I do.
He rides faster and faster on his bike, thrilled by the roar of the engine beneath him and the sensation that everything is moving quickly through him. It takes the pain away. Pain can’t travel at 100mph like he can. If he were to slow down he’d be stuck with that thought yet again, that she is only ‘the one that got away’ because he pushed her. He longs to tell her that the life she chose was what he wanted all along; to be accepted by society, to settle in one place long enough to establish a true sense of self, to have a past and a future worth caring about.
In their separate dreams she and he will live, building new castles from the ghosts that haunt them, their silent screams resonating until the end when the tide catches up and takes them both for its own.
You have to build your difference, they say.
You are divided for love.
But I don’t know who you are.
Do you know who I am?
I can feel your fingers reaching out to me,
so close to having material form it hurts
like an unstruck sound in my heart.
You are surely a reflection,
but when I look for you in the mirror
the only me there is I.
I project the idea onto all of my lovers,
trying to understand the shape of you,
then when they are gone, I retract you
back into the darkness of shadow.
I saw you in the theatre last night.
Three stages, three shows, three facets of you.
I danced with each in my dreams.
You had raw, bleeding knees from the crawl;
an attempt to save yourself from fiction, no doubt.
But one tug on my necklace, one cry from within
and I knew the fall was real.
He emerged from the dirty stairwell of an underground station; quickly at first, taking two steps at a time, and then with marked hesitation as he noticed the silence that hung in the air. The sun was high in the sky. It was a weekday. And this was central London. Silence under such conditions was highly inconsistent, and his instincts were telling him not to trust it.
No longer used to direct sunlight, he raised an elbow to shield his eyes while they adjusted, and contemplated momentarily whether he could have lost his hearing. The tunnels had boomed and hummed with a resonance you could feel: it was comforting to the residents and helped them find their way around, but made it a wholly disorientating experience to come out into an air that held no sound. His heart pounded, preparing him for danger, and his breath became irregular.
Once his senses acclimatised though, he was pleased to confirm he hadn’t in fact lost the ability to see or hear. It was just that there were no cars on the road; no angry horns, no market traders, no hustle and bustle at all. You might be inclined to think that this was a city devoid of humanity, but there were people. Hundreds of them, thousands perhaps. Every race you could imagine, every style of clothing, every age, every gender; each sat with their legs crossed, their eyes closed and their spines straight. They all occupied their own space perhaps a metre apart from the next on all sides. Every one of them faced the same direction – he considered the positioning of the station he had emerged from – South. Continue reading “All The Madmen: Resh”
It’s funny to think of all the things we don’t remember. Like, I’ve been here in this world – or variations of it at least – for thousands upon thousands of lifetimes, and I remember only choice segments of the last 21 years. Adrian says I’d remember more if I ever lived through something that made a deeper impression than my acrylic nails, but what does he know?
I do remember the day I met him. I was getting some fresh air in the park near my house, vaguely watching a group of flexible fit freaks doing yoga on the grass. He startled me, because I was scrolling through my news feed looking for a cat meme to share that would earn me enough ‘likes’ to keep me in with my peers. I didn’t even pay attention to the unusual in those days since living was all about conformity, and Adrian was totally peculiar. He slapped my phone right out of my hand and sent it skidding across the path.
“Do you know how much that cost?!” I yelped, diving to pick it up in attempt to minimise damage. Too late – the screen was smashed up and the edges were scuffed. I wanted to cry but my fury wouldn’t let me, so I just resigned to my face growing red and puffed out hot air.
Adrian was laughing, hard. Some of the yoga girls were staring. A memory rose to the forefront of the kids at school who thought they were better than me because they had the latest trainers, and used that as a reason to pull my hair and steal my lunch. I was dreadfully unworthy. Cat memes hadn’t been invented back then so I hadn’t been able to redeem myself, and instead I spiralled into a black hole of fantasy in my mind. Continue reading “The Things We Don’t Remember”
Some people find comfort only in the most complex of situations. They will try to engineer the circumstances under which they believe meaning to arise; often destroying their relationships with others and leaving an ugly trash pile of rejected consequences in their wake.
Life really is much simpler than that. Meaning has never been something to hunt down, for it is everywhere, all of the time. It cannot be detected using instruments and tools and mathematical formulae; what they create for us is at best a map. But meaning can be experienced through the senses, and they are our best shot at being one with the territory.
Of course, meaning itself is a man made concept. It is not absolute. Repeat the word ‘meaning’ enough times and it loses all… meaning. And therein lies the trick. Surrender yourself to your senses, to the here and now, and you will soon find that meaning is in fact meaningless. Furthermore you will laugh at yourself for ever thinking otherwise.
Everything and nothing, wisdom and folly: they’re all the same.