On the first day, I created shapes, little funny characters with no purpose,
perfectly in the place which I assigned them.
Then I dove into them, giving them the greatest gift I had, myself.
Suddenly what made them was not the shape I gave them, but the bodies they gave me.
These brilliant little lives. Perfectly ignorant, willfully dumb.
Each a part of me.
Then they started destorying the others’ physical bodies.
The true them, the them that was me never died. It just recycled.
These brilliant little creatures, recreating the world I gave them.
Living art, cycling, creating new art and destroying old
Through hate and pain and suffering, perfect little lives.
Pefect in their imperfection
I was wandering through a dark hallway, my arm out as my hand ran along the wall as means of guidance. The nape of a woman’s neck came into the bow of my arm. She was standing in the dark with her baby in her arms. I felt an incredible connection with this woman.
I lay in bed, twisting my body against the blanket, attempting to inspire any sensation other than the one in my head.
I tried to let the pain lull me into sleep, with no success.
This hot tingle, more than any kind of physical pain, sends me unwanted thoughts.
In a conscious state I could simply divert my attention. But in this place between sleep and wakefulness, I am victim to the whim of my subconscious.
She was right. What I’m looking for doesn’t exist. Even if it did, I wouldn’t deserve it.
Replaying recent history in my mind’s eye. If I had a gun pointed to my head, my finger inside the trigger guard, I would’ve squeezed. It wasn’t a firearm or a pistol. It was a “gun”. Numb to the sound.
The urge to empty my bladder filled me (rim shot).
I suspected standing would cause headache and dizziness. Still, I had already urinated into the sports drink bottle next to me. Attempting this a second time might result in spilled urine.
I stood to find pain and dizziness. I stepped forward a few steps and grasped the door frame of the bathroom.
I sat on the toilet and blew my nose into my hand. I wiped the remaining mucus from my nose onto my arm. I would have to shower now.
Under the hot pour of the shower, I emptied my nose several times.
I dried my body and climbed back into bed.
I slept almost immediately but woke again a couple hours later.
I knew I could continue fighting consciousness, inspiring copious amounts of pain, or I could attempt to get up. Either way, I faced pain.
Then I remembered not to fight the pain, but to welcome it as a part of me.
Suddenly, the pain was valid. I rode each wave with delight, taking control. This was my pain. I owned it.
Then the fever broke.
The slaves were openly unhappy in their enslavement. Fear of their captors only worked to deter open discussion of an uprising. When slaves were given an opportunity to rebel, they often took it. They assaulted slave owners when opportunity for escape was present. Weary from being assaulted and loosing valuable slaves to escape, slave owners devised new ways to keep slaves subservient. The slaves obviously had reason to be unhappy. There was no deceiving them about this. But their perceived reasons for unhappiness, these could be fabricated. Slave owners led slaves to believe slaves of other faiths were reasons for their unhappiness. Some slaves began turning on each other. But other slaves continued to fight their captors. So slave owners led slaves to believe slaves of other continental descent were reasons for their unhappiness. More slaves turned on each other. But other slaves continued to fight their captors. So slave owners gave some slaves limited favor. With the jealousy instilled with this favoritism, all slaves were turned against each other. No longer were slave owners assaulted by slaves as they were no longer considered the primary cause for the slaves’ unhappiness. No longer did slaves attempt to free themselves as the perceived primary cause for their unhappiness was not their lack of freedom, but rather the conditions created by their fellow slaves.