Tuesday, 29 June 2010 02:00

Shattered I

By  Megan Jean Harlow
Virtual explorations drawing on visions of madness from a relegated past. The future awaits. Yet it continues to hesitate. And I pause. I (yawn). My fingers are my feet as we dance along this window lined street. I stare out at myself in search of anyone. Are you there? I c u. Do you hear me? Can you feel me. Wandering along the domains of virtual wastelands loses its appeal from time to time. I miss the days that I never knew. I miss smells of others. Taste of dirt. Mud in fingers. Where have these [items] been mis<placed>. Excuse me, my mind is a bit hazy. Growing Lazy as the days draw on. To create. I must create. This is what I am doing now. I try to create. But then again, and again, I am nearly late. I have no date. I have no time. But I am always late. I lost my watch when I threw it out my bathroom window.          

Smells trigger memory. Memory smells. My thoughts are rank. Mildew forms around the barriers of the past and I am desperately attempting to poke my head out from the cobwebs. They told me to get a goal. I have a few. I would like to see the (suN). I would like to move the body. I want to create. Women create children. I do not want them anymore it seems this disease has truly spread through my intestines. Hysterical my womb – flutters on. I do not want these things. But it was an exercise in movement. I still cannot move my legs. Has there ever been a lady? A lady, wilts, drips, pours, she excretes the sediments of a gentleman. Manners have tied her in knots. Knots have driven her back to bed. And now I can never move my legs. I am ashamed. I wish to be a dancer. Like Fred Astaire. But I am paralyzed with fear – with dreams – with hope.

Interrupted

by a chat. Chatters, my teeth chatter, my lip quivers. I anticipate your arrival. But you will remain away. It is there where you belong. And beyond is where I can place you. I can see you. Not anywhere, but very clearly not here. And this is a place. More of a place than a home. A home for the imagined lonely. Not truly lonely, but merely in an imagined way. They are lonely for my benefit. To justify the eternal sound of my breath against the wet blanket. Days remain alone amongst the lonely clouds of nowhere. I am surrounded but trying to pretend. I love to pretend.

And

so she sat incessantly. Dependently. Drearily. Clutching the blanket around her naked thin slightly sun burnt skin. She sat up in the dark. Again the dreams, they are getting stronger. The night is getting warmer. And the heat is rising, danger brews in the minds night walk as the birds begin to ponder their morning song. Suddenly she lies back down, to the surprise of the Undead inhabitants of her room.

<I think she heard me>

<I think she does not care>


So she stumbled back into the stupor of sleep, restlessness pursues her in the form of a dream. She can barely focus her attention, above the sky turns a deep red, green clouds prepare to unleash a storm of unknown force, a lone tree in the horizon loses all it leaves as it turns black. The silhouette of a tree catches her eye. She stumbles towards it reaching for branches that break in her feeble hands. The tree jumps back. It returns to the horizon. She sits and then flies in an eagle. The bird has arrived. A Bird. Its statuette build intimidates, and with grey cold eyes he stares. She is no longer stumbling. She is standing. And the bird and her meet eye to eye. The gaze is locked and the dream fades.

Morning.

Or noon. Wake up time, regardless. Blankets off. Search through piles. Find underwear, pull over a summer dress. Ready. Now what? Coffee. And Ciggs. Out the door to deal with the unpleasant real world where anything can happen. She escapes the messy apartment and is surprised at the smile that is creeping on her face. As the sun warms her face she pulls sunglasses out of her bag and a surge of energy pushes her along the crowded streets of the city.

<I don't like it when she leaves>

<I am lonely>

<I want to move>

<I want to live>


The door slams as she walks in with a coffee in hand and a fresh pack of smokes in her blue leather bag. What now? Call someone. Pick up phone, scroll through contacts, too many names not enough friends. The problem of meaningless networks. She sits and sips the coffee trying to avoid opening the box. But the box tempts and sits and she knows if she doesn't open it soon she may drive herself insane from the lack of input. Open box. Blank screens. Flat Screens. Hours later, she zooms through meta-scapes, vibrates, tongues and titalates, but yet again she returns. This is not life. She explains:

I

once knew a girl named Desire. She does not come here anymore. She has left the spaces. The spaces become empty and I have fear she has slipped out of time. That is why I threw my watch out the bathroom window. Petty revenge on the one who has locked me in this space. I am waiting and always late. I have no time, but time has me. Desire knows no time. she didn't fear him. she doesn't care. she is carefree, careless, caring, but not destined. she is free. And I am a prisoner. A blinking light distracts my eye. I lose it all. I raise it up. This is a gift. I sacrificed a watch to gods that have forsaken us. And I am alone now. In the middle of a city full of ants. People who follow flows and make the world work. I sit and watch myself fail. I don't dare whisper the truth. So I shout and then I am lost and no one will give me directions. I miss Desire. I want to touch her. I want Desire to touch me to bathe me in forgotten skin and dried apricots.

And

the music changes. A song comes on. The beat begins to pulsate. The legs begin vibrate something comes from below.

<I see her>

<I don't see anything>


And she stands she takes off her dress and stands in the window. Hoping someone can see her. But when one is alone. One is alone. And no one will see her. She is invisible to the world that exists outside the four walls of the dingy apartment. But inside the room is full. A Crowd of UnDeads have taken interest in our heroine. She could care less. But then again, this is perhaps why they have came. We dream for those who could care less. Those who are care free. And the UnDead have been drawn like moths to the light to this young lady. A soul from a different  sort of time. She is out of place in this life and inside their horizon.

The

UnDead are not quite what you think. I am back. I am yet to be Dead.

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