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I am Idiot, and just a little bit more. I have to live with this. Being born yesterday to a world I’ve already put wrong. Being too absent minded to realise all I’ve done. Not caring that an unseen force seeks to put me down. Not caring, not trying. Glad that I’m not smart. Then I might have to deal with it all.
But this complimentary self loathing is not me. I read it over twice and knew it wasn’t quite right. Three times, delete? Fourth time, nostalgia. I am no Bob Dylan, I can’t really get the message over the way I want. But being the blissful idiot I am, I don’t really care. I write as I would talk. Well, type as I would talk. I would like to write as my heroes did before me, but it seems pen and paper isn’t good enough for this age anymore (rants the old man inside me). So today in the tangled city, lying in my hospital bed, I write the story of yesterday. My dairy. A twenty something year old monkey alien in the year 2066.
So that’s how I’m starting this. Well... how else could I? Suppose I could go back, erase that, and start at the beginning. Or I could tell a tale of when I lay face flat, arse naked on a hospital bed whilst a massive crowd (a doctor and a nurse) gathered to hum in a monotonous doctor like warble, whilst picking out random blunt objects to drive into my back, stating it’s an authentic medical practice (no mercy for commas in this story). Then again I think they had drugged me. Suppose it was for the best. I actually find it quite funny now, the fact that I wasn’t all there whilst they pounded my back with a series of layabout hammers. But then again, I shouldn't have been there. I shouldn't have fallen three stories down. Then maybe I wouldn’t have become another statistic on a long list of idiots. But I can’t help if I’m a proud Idiot.
Ignore all that. Start again. Summarise. Continue.
Let's go RIGHT back to the start. As far back in time as I possibly can, which would this morning. Actually now I can even be sure if it was this morning. Never got a chance to ask someone. But anyway.
My Amnesia was rather bad when I first woke, completely forgot everything. I was like a newborn child, except with the personality and intelligence of a “bored with life” erratic Twenty three year old Azikai (or as the natives call us, monkeys). Probably the most obscene baby in the ward, but there's always that one crawling all over the walls.
The first thing I got was the smell. The air was musky, damp, horrid. Like a poorly ventilated sweatshop. I didn't move. I didn't open my eyes. I couldn't feel a thing. I didn't want to. Something was holding me back. Some heavy subconscious force pinned me to the soft ground. It was as if the heavy air was too thick to move in. But it was comfortable. I was not yet fully awake so all the worries of life had to wait. I was being revisited by that warm glowing blissful maiden that is sleep.
Comfortably paralysed I envisioned her. The woman that drifts alone. Alien in the claustrophobic bustle of a familiar city. That beautiful pale skinned long blond haired human who wears the red dress in the black and white world. The woman in red, a classic illusion, except... I began to recognise her. She usually smiles... smiles behind a clear screen, for all to see... for all to see on the screen, but... was it... was it false? That smile. She usually turns and smiles, she always does! But this time... it was horrible! She turned around crying, everyone in black and white around her crying. No sound. No chance of being heard. Caged behind a flashing screen. Like an old TV hidden in the ambient of a film from long ago. Stuck in the back of my mind. Left to fester alone. Everyone crying, someone put the TV on mute. Some ignorant repulsive soul took away their voices. I tried to move, tried to find a way to turn up the volume, but a numbing buzzing tingly force held me in place. I didn't even know what I was being held to. I couldn’t move my head. At this point I didn’t even know if my body was present. All I could see was that screen, their disfigured faces drenched in clown like bleeding mascara. It was all happening too fast. I began to panic. Then a thought circled my mind. The ignorant repulsive soul? What if that soul was protecting me? Protecting me from the crying. But it read my thoughts, was unhappy with my remarks. It turned the volume up and they all began screaming. Static choking screams. Their jaws dropped to the ground as their eyes rolled down into their empty bodies.
My own eyes burst open. The heavy air flooded back into my sinuses. The static screams replaced by the sounds of clatter from the outer world. But they were still echoing in my mind making it even harder to determine whether I was awake or not. I found it hard to keep my eyes open. The echoing screams began to get louder. I was slipping back in. My own voice shouted in my head, demanding I get up. I did try. I even thought I did at one point. But I was too drowsy to know that I was still sleeping. Finally all my lower class effort pulled off. I managed to jerk my head sideways, beating away the subconscious trap. This sudden movement somehow awoke a massive headache. The pain hammered away the subconscious world and brought me back to reality. Perfectly understandable I believe, as you rarely feel real pain in dreams, don’t you? How do you think that whole pinch me thing works? Anyway I was awake, but still unaware of where I was.
Strong dusty beams of light ripped through the dark haze of my tired blurred vision. My eyes began to compensate for the contrast and the dark zones gradually became clearer. Wooden plank walls haphazardly thrown together formed a frail square room. There was a door, well... an exit. A hole covered by a single stained sheet. The walls where filled with smaller holes and gaps between the half rotten planks, not only letting in light, but the occasional cool breeze lifting the weight of the air. The breeze from the outside world brought a scent of its own, a rather foul one. A distant open sewer? The decay of a rundown street? The barking of dogs. The bullet holes in the walls. Distant shouts and the whoosh of traffic pulsing through the airwaves. The world was breathing, coughing. Out there the world was alive with the sound of its own frail body.
The floor was covered in mattresses. There were about four other people scattered on the floor. All sleeping. Unconscious. Empty bottles everywhere. The mattresses stained. Dark hazy liquid dripping from the bottle heads. A red stain on the wall. Limbs tangled in a restless sleep. The barking getting louder. The slamming of doors. Shouting. Screaming. The escalation. The bloody screeching birds. The discomfort. The light burning my aching eyes. The bassy pulse of the throbbing pain in my head. All senses where numbing, as if the migraine itself was pushing fingers into my brain, closing passageways to the memories I needed so badly. I had no idea where I was. Who these people where. What was out there. Why the hell I was lying in the filthy shack. At this point I was too worried with where I was to realise that I didn’t know who I was.
Actually... now that I have the chance to think about it... The fact that one could forget himself is so unlikely that they may not even realise it when it happens. Something the Brain could never really prepare for.