The Stories that Made Me

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A short paced journey of a life journey. always seeking, never finding

I watch Zeitgeist. It all makes sense, the corruption, the control, the greed, the world and the social order was falling apart, I didnt need a job I needed enlightenment. After two years of Sound engineering, i told my mom i wasnt going to do my third year. When she asked why, i said, i want enjoy the moment. She asked, dont you want to become something? I asked am I not something? I read Narcissus and Goldumnd and i thought, Goldmund is like me, wanting to enjoy eveything, but thinking he needs to specialize, compartmentalise. Narcissus tells me:’.....’

Im working in a cafe, the turkish manager tells me, what Im doing is ego-masturbation. This is what he says during one of our conversations about Zoroastrianism. The manger is a painter. He has ‘in homage to carrivagio’ paintongs hanging all over the coffee shop. One of them has a cracked paint effect. I ask how he did it. He said, do you think ive spent all these years developing a technique that i would just tell you how to do it. Ego masturbation. A year later I found out its a laquor you paint over and it creates little fissures. Its a fiver on eBay.

I sell pharmeceuticals from the 6th floor of my lift-less apartment, from the hours of 5pm to 3am im running up and down like a vertical ping pong ball. Buzz, its peggy, can i get a 20. Buz, its jarrad can i get a 20, buzz. Its charlie can i get some charlie. Buzz, its emily can i get some mandy. I call my mom after 4 years, i tell her im enjoying the moment. She says your dads had a heartattack and hangs up. They are 4000 km away and im too busy to go back. Too much to do and too little time. I paint disfigured faces reflected in shiny bathroom tiles. i paint during anxiety attacks, i paint when im rejected and when i reject. Buzz, i dont answer, im having a moment. 3 pictures, 40 minutes later, everything makes sense. The world is chaos and our minds try to organise it. A sign post, move 10 cm to the left. I read voltaire’s Candid. I see now what the meaning of life is. I need to work on a farm. I need to labour and to stop thinking. But what if i get bored on a farm? There is no social life on a farm. How far are the shops? Is there central heating. Farming seem like a lot of hard work. Am i like Candid? Lost and looking. Is there something here for me. I read house of leaves by Danielewski. This is my mind, a series of ever-changing corridors, there is nothing stable or conrete. I am not on a hero’s jurney designed by the universe, i am a sparkley reflective wave in the abyss. I play poker. At the casino, my ego grows with the attention of men and the envy of women. I am young, i feel cool, i have no worries. I am on a winning streak, one month, i am feeling very cool, loved by the world, second month i take a break to travel, third month i come back and begin my loosing streak, i feel dumb and rejected. I feel im being talked about, laughed at and hated. I walk home in a storm, because i want to brood. I cry and think about how i am just dirt, lowly, uneducated, undernourished, alone and now poor. I stand in the rain, wanting the water to soak into my organs. I want the water to take over me, I want to become the sea. Its so great and all it does is just sit there, not thinking or doing a thing. Why cant i feel great, why cant i enjoy the moment. I have to participate, I have to interact, all the time something. Exhausted. I run up and down my apartment stairs. My legs would be like steel if i ate enough. Dont have time to eat. Dont have energy to eat. I watch Kafka’s Trial. I feel like i am on trial. Judged for not doing sometihng that i havent realised im not doing yet. I dress like a hobo and sit with them one night by St. Pauls. Maybe they can enlighten my. Maybe they know something i dont know. One guy, early 40s is stading up, arms bend sholderwidth apart fingers dangling infront of his chest, he makes movements like hes bobbing up and down gently from his slightly bent knees. his shaddow prostrated on the side of the church. A bin-fire’ in front of him. I think how typical. Hobos really do start fires in bins, i thought it was just a movie thing. He is manicaly talking about airplanes never transversing (though he doesnt use that word) over the arctic, and how this has something to do with the earth being flat. I dont understand him the way the three sat next to me seem to understand him. There is a young couple sat on a large sofa cushion a few meters away, they seems very close and in love. The next minute the guy gets up and throws a bag of something in the girls face and walkes away quickly as the girl yells; I didnt mean to. What the fuck. Youre a fucking twat. And rests back down sulkily. I reconsider my surroundeing. I was hoping to get something more. I was hoping to get the a glimps of meaning, a conscious and eloqently verbalised rebellion against materialism and status quo. I was hoping to find candid, a legless begger with the widom of the ages. I didnt find him here. I read jungs the unconscious self. I realised this is it. I have no myth in my life. I beign to create my story, the myth of Megan the narrative that follows me and scupts me unknowingly like a shaddow puppet Master. I follow the strings, i reveal the curtain, but i still do not know myself.


Submitted: May 17, 2021

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