Winding
The show was my own life: plot-hole riddled, character driven, sensually shot and experienced, and spluttering nonsense ever more so, season by season. I was exiting before I knew it, I was born on location, I was a body, strapped to a series, ready for action, drama, despair, hope, laughter, and then disappointment, like all endings are disappointments. The ending of my life, it seemed.
Those who ever lived, they said of me, but what preceded that nobody was sure. I had no friends, and I had no sensations in the history of a life, one of many as it seemed, as I discovered. I was alone only in the spiritual sense, in the most horrible of manners, but I was not in the physical sense, the most pleasurable of al. I could see others in my same situation, living the same shows, the same cameras attached to their necks and eyes, invisible to the cosmos, worrying about the same things, thinking stupidly. I hated that I had such good company that even the unique premise of my character arc, the one of the heinous loner who should learn the value of friendship, companionship, love, and compassion, was being repeated, cyclically, in better ways (which meant their stories were more gracious automatically and in worse ways (which meant that I could not even be looked at to make fun of, to make someone else’s life more entertaining by my own virtuouslessness).
What I did discover was the art of belonging to one set of rules that are constantly bending of reality to accommodate the rules rather than the other way around. I was not in a fictionized mind, with a fictional swallow, but in a real life strangling itself to comprehend and resolve its contradictions. What I said did not need to match my character if so I decided, to be spontaneous, or ugly, or disgusting, and those around me were only guided by their own sense of pride and survival. No ultimate plan there seemed to be, no ultimate goal or plot, just the endless ramblings of a face that needed to exist until the death that was programmed for it, that the will of something more divine had laid, but in a matter that my little inhuman brain could understand.
I wanted nothing more than to know what the path that had been built for me was, the one that I needed to build for myself, but both things did not make sense to me, since they were wrong and they looked wrong. So I continued the show, the show that was going on, though it did not have an audience but myself, and then I loved when I didn’t need to, and then I wanted something that I almost needed, and then I did what I shouldn’t have, and on and on, I continued waiting for a big reveal, an epiphany of sorts, a change from the depth of me that could be considered transcendent, real, or important enough to warrant a quote, something said for centuries like words of wisdom or even a joke, a nice little lullaby perhaps. I droned on and droned on wanting to end in glory, and in glory I was going to die, I was going to live the show, be the star across dimension, a story recuperated from mouth to mouth, and each mind that had ever lived before me.
