It Never Snows Here.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Fruitless search for Art. As usual. Oh, and ice. Cracking.

Submitted: January 21, 2008

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Submitted: January 21, 2008

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I was woken by the harsh sound of cracking ice raining down, the incessant dripping of melted snow, and the thoughts of my mind roaring through it all. Waking up to such vivid conditions was bizarre. My hearing seemed to be in overdrive, but as far as sight....all I could see was blue light.

 

My mind was ripped in two. One part of it was in the land of my nightmares, the other buzzing with obligations and deadlines. My existance seems now to constantly be in two planes of reality at once now. I feel myself age.

 

My nightmares..now these were interesting. A house with perposterously large red steps, narrow and exposed to the outdoors. A very attractive, yet tortured man who may have been a ghost...a room where a baby once lived (the baby had died..I just don't remember how)...myself and others, reversed in age by at least 5 years...there were boys and a 12-pack of some kind of forbidden drink...I went into the Haunted Room and chugged it. The door opens, and there's a dimly lie hallway. The stairs start almost immediately. They're covered in some ugly, dirty-looking beige carpet. The stairs ascend higher than my range of sight, then vanish in darkness. I remember the distinct feeling of no self-worth. It's how I feel in reality when I'm just about to start drinking, or when I think of choosing a victim to flirt with and manipulate. I know somewhere inside that there will be no love for me in a long time. What I'll do in the meantime is what scares me.

 

Which, obviously, brings me to reality. In my physical actions, I illustrate full responsibility and heavy independance. Working, studying, planning, listing...I'm becoming the most soul-less fucking robot this town has ever seen. I feel I must; my only Art is Theatre. Theatre is where I feel different; a spark of light. Where I can completely let loose all feelings of despair, but not a soul will know what triggers it. Taking that despair and applying it to something else...something productive! What a treat. Without Theatre, I will have become one now...open to rust. How long can it hold me up? My systematic life is good; it keeps me from being wild.

 

Part of me still remembers freedom. A land where grades were still good and obligations were taken care of, but Art was everywhere. Everything had its hidden treasure. There was no boundary to life. Age meant nothing.  I not only heard the world, but I tasted it. Smelled it. Felt it. Saw it. Was a part of it.

 

Now I'm a heartless robot, working, marching, and dreaming of killing someone else's Art. Taking it. But why do I have the desire to?


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