As I began reading the short story, just the opening line was enough to let me know it would be like nothing I had read before. Of course, I instantly identified with the main character (they say everybody does!).
I've been here for days, minutes, years. I miss food, yet I can still recall the taste of the last good meal I ate, as if frozen indelibly in my taste-buds.
I've been trying to find the words for the way I had been feeling leading up to that day where I sat down to read the short story. You ever have those kinds of feelings that seem so strange yet familiar that it seems the English language is a massive conspiracy to cover up the existence of this feeling, having assigned a word/name to literally everything in God's universe down to the genetic makeup of its atomic structure, yet somehow they managed to not give a name to this, this feeling, a thing so concrete to you that it seems it must have a name, god damn it! how is there no name for it?
I've been lost for a while now.
The more of that short story that I read, the less it felt like a story. It began to feel like a direct assault against my sanity. More than that, attacking my very existence.
Have you ever watched a movie that seemed so realistic, you stopped to question if your life may not similarly be a movie? One where you were given your acting role in the beginning by the director, but then he said ACTION and you have been playing the part for so long now that you forgot it was ever a part to begin with, but now have the sinking feeling that someday you will remember it is all just a film when the director abruptly reminds you of his presence, suddenly yelling CUT!
I finally know the universal truths! I know that
Oh, hello. What was I just talking about? Nevermind, I'm sure it wasn't important.
I wish I could find my way out of here.
Row row row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a... Who wrote this song, anyways? And what secret knowledge did they have? How did they know about the Stream?
Have you ever heard the urban legend of the painting that could eat people? It was a painting of the very Gallery that wound up displaying it. In the painting, the gallery was quite busy, everyone crowding around one painting in particular. And after viewings of the painting, in which crowds always gathered around this painting the longest, eventually everyone would realize that one among their gathering had vanished. Guests looked everywhere for the missing attendant, not realizing they just had to look where they already had been looking, at the painting, for there they could find the image of the now-absent guest permanently captured in paint, looking terrified, unsure how they got there or how to break free, faces permanently portrayed in terror.
4 9 tz~
I think the short story I read was a little something like that painting myth. uig645uyg
Wasn't there a movie about a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a movie within a dream within a universe within a glass marble?
circles circles everything is made of circles atoms are circles everything is atOms everything is circles within circles within circles the circle is the symbol of natural order a circle is a sign of nature at work for human hands can not make a perfect O circle only nature can therefor it stands to reason that just like colOmbus knew earth was a circle I am here to tell the O world that THE UNIVERSE MUST ALSO BE A CIRCLE anOd oh gOd I hate to ask thOis questiOn but if we are Oall inside the circOle dear gOd WHAT LIES oUTSIDE THE CIRCLE?
What letters would one use to articulate the sound of static? tszszstzszstzs?
Have you ever looked into a mirror when there was another mirror behind you? How long did you stare into that infinite void displayed there? Long enough to feel something staring back? At this point, I'm not entirely sure it wasn't me you were seeing in there! I'm so lost, it hurts!
The only alternative to my being trapped inside the short story would be that I never existed until the short story wrote me into existence, but that could never happen, would be crazy. But have religious believers described reality as God's Dream? Or is that my wishful thinking? What if God wakes up? What if my short story ends? Where do I go when the story