Mist

I am not in my body. An Automatic Consolidation Unit has pushed me out and I am watching from somewhere in the ether. I can’t make a sound, I can’t feel anything I touch, and I am losing all hope of getting back in. 

Whoever has unwittingly stolen my body is living my life better than I could. She is achieving, earning, loving, and is loved. Her body was diseased and discarded, and since I have contracted a soul sickness that has no cure, we were marked as donor matches. 

My consent was not sought due to my judgement being considered unreliable; her consent was impossible due to flatlining of the brain.  

I cry out for the shaman and he comes, loyal creature that he is. But the nail in my coffin is finding he is as formless as I, and together we are nothing but purple mist. 

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18 thoughts on “Mist

  1. Long after the sadness is gone and your life has moved forward, there will always be a part of you who feels trapped behind the eyes of a happy stranger. Even though things may have gotten better that doesn’t just cancel out the things you’ve experienced, the things you’ve felt. They’re still a part of who you are, even if they don’t fit together with who you’ve become.

    At least that’s my interpretation. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, I’d love to know the intentions behind the piece πŸ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I really like your interpretation 😊 In most of my work I am attempting to create multiple levels of meaning.

      Here I wanted to suggest a sort of abstract future in which machines were responsible for cleaning up the mess left by ‘malfunctioning’ humans. They are capable of moving souls about into different host bodies. So in this case they came across a person with soul sickness (or mental illness, depression) and a person whose body had died, and spliced them together discarding the bits that were no use. The implication is that people who suffer mentally are considered to have less important lives than those who are ‘sane’ but physically ailed.

      On a different level, I wrote Mist as a metaphor for the way it feels to be detached from what is considered normal; the narrator is disassociating from her real life. She has only her delusions and fantasies to anchor her (the shaman), but in realising they are illusory is completely lost without a map.

      I don’t know whether I pulled these intentions off – it’s unlikely in 150 words I suppose – but that’s what was going through my mind when I wrote it.

      Liked by 1 person

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