My Mind and the Girl

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
A personal piece about my mental state and a failed relationship of sorts.

Submitted: March 08, 2016

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Submitted: March 08, 2016

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Something changed there. Encompassed by swathes of green and earth, the familiarity of the park which my ever expanding shoe sizes frequented over two decades became a mirage. As though a filter darkened the colour scheme of the atmosphere, transforming the tranquillity of the surroundings into a warped, hellish distortion. Was it always this bleak here? Did the droning of the birds always resemble a perpetual Monday? Mid-summer played host to the dawning of an internal ice age, as my stream of consciousness bifurcated into the deepest of rivers. The significance of time both shrunk and shrieked, forcing me to vainly attempt to shake the vibrancy back into my field of vision. In an instant, the world’s effervescence had vanished, and no amount of gawping, frowning and clutching at grass would reach reason as to where it had gone. I could see no end to the descent.

I wondered if they saw the same as me. A group of lifelong friends dragged into the same wormhole as the park, spat out as shells of themselves. Even their faces, those which I had seen stretch and bounce, encourage and comfort, now had no connection to whichever frequency I was existing within, so distant and counterfeit. I heard their muffled dialogue and various noises which sounded nostalgic, almost like a crackling of a needle against a record. ‘What on earth is happening to me,’ I thought, ‘and what is this nagging feeling tying knots in my stomach?’

I knew I had to leave, so I made my excuses and scurried home, eager to clarify whatever I had become. Splashing of water on my face felt velvety and reassuring, providing the first indications that I hadn’t departed from my mortal coil in that now monstrous park. I revisited the feelings I felt sat there, how time halted, the isolation, and felt daggers in my chest. An instinct to flee. But in eternity, there is no hiding place. No refuge. No cure. And then it struck. Harder than the connection of cranium to concrete, empty revelations came. Visions of the end, the beginning, eternity. Heavy breathing, violent tugging of hair as though I was pulling up the very fabric of the universe. Flirtation with combustion. Until suddenly, it ceased.

The colour seeped back. How I’d missed the blue of the wallpaper I’d never noticed before. What a luxury to have a steady heart rate, to breathe comfortably. What a treat this feeling of neutrality is. I peered into the mirrored image of eyes, piercing ocean blue, bluer than they’d ever been before. Reality had been ripped from beneath me, mauling my frail, emaciated frame into submission, before re-appearing with a warning, its icy drawl lecturing: ‘You are insignificant. You are a mere breathe in a tornado. You are an eyes blink. Now, go to bed.’ So I did, grateful to the universe for the temporary illumination. I didn’t much enjoy the view without it.

As months passed, and reality came and went, I began to find a desolate solace in my new home. There’s a comfort in knowing that you’re so very alone that should you perish, and of course human life is characterised by its fleeting nature, worlds will keep turning. I’d shudder at my own thoughts. “What a tedious bastard you are” I’d scold “smile at those people.” Directing pearly grins at smudges, I’d attempt to pacify the snarling pit of despair where my thoughts manifested. My mind was replaced by a heavy vehicle of darkness that day in the park, and I longed for that old mind of mine. Oh, how I missed it. That mind which stared at the world with wonder and marvel, full of what ifs, plans and laughter. I wondered if some other miserable soul stumbled across my happiness in that park, and claimed it as its own. The thought threatened to draw a smile to my beleaguered face, which was promptly interrupted by the tapping of a porcelain finger on my shoulder. “Remember, none of this matters. You are insignificant. Time for bed.”

Somewhere amongst my wander through purgatory I stumbled upon you. You looked different to your usual bullish self, now vulnerable and withered, yet sparkling, your eyes encompassing the majority of your face. I thought to myself “that looks like a mighty fine place to rest” and contemplated placing my head on your shoulder for a while. Our spirits were beyond kindred, and I sensed that you understood. Our souls danced and played tricks while our body’s respectfully nodded, following protocol. Isn’t it peculiar how we waste our precious iotas with silence and shrugs, when we could be exploring together? In inner space we frolicked and teased while trudging through times limits under the guise of service. The mundanity. Do you remember? I wonder to this day what possessed us to squander countless forever’s obeying and perspiring. You were the only one who the wormholes never took, an insistent firefly buzzing down my dim corridor. I knew your wings flapped for another, and that was fine. I’d only made a reservation for one anyway.

It was you who put the light out, you know. You’d grown weary of the confines of spiritual connection, and longed for something real. Reality. That bitch will be the death of me. You entered my vision, a hopping and swaying supernova penetrating the usual black surroundings, drunk and wonderful and placed your hands on my frozen torso in spite of my protestations. And then it changed. Right there. Your touch summoned waterfalls of all the universes colours which washed the tightness from my skin, swirling into a hurricane as our eyes met. Waves upon waves caused a flood, and suddenly the streams of consciousness met once more. Had I returned to the park? I couldn’t protest any longer and pressed my lips hard against yours. The waves were persistent, reducing my mind to a sea of tranquillity, bringing me back to that bouncing, smiling young man. I’d missed him, he was fun. Carefree. Human. You’d found him, grabbed his hand, and hurriedly presented him to my tired self. Your larger than life eyes glistened, your frame excitedly bopping as you introduced me to my vision of happiness. We whirled and fought, bayed and tittered into the night. I rose to welcome the figure you presented, but he stared blankly. He didn’t recognise me. I didn’t recognise him. Was I too far gone? Was I rejecting happiness? The vehicle of my mind revved its engine once more, spluttering its poisonous toxins, frightening the apparition of myself back down the rabbit hole from whence it came. “We cannot be” you said “this is all we have.”

Reality didn’t have a chance to get a word in edgeways that night. “I know, time for bed.” I peered out the window at the moon. Engaged in a staring contest which I was destined to lose, allowing its milky surface to taunt me, forcing visions of my doom, an emblem of the impossible endlessness of the universe. I readjusted myself to the darkness, as though I’d never known colour, tussling with mortality. I thought of you. You were older, your face softened as your sharp shoulders melted into domestic bliss, surrounded by wide mouths and high pitched giggles. Vibrancy. I pictured all those figures I’d once known, who joined me in that park, basking in gleeful normality. I was nowhere to be seen in these visions. My cruel mind was still cooking up a suitable ending for me.

As that familiar chest tightening began to take hold, I prepared for that whisper in my ear, interrupting my cursory morning attempt to escape my walled prison. “Hey, me again, just a reminder. You are insig-‘I took a step forward. Felt my years crash onto my shoulders, the bags beneath my eyes begging for respite. I obeyed. Then thrust my eyes open and aimed them to the skies. “I am significant. I refuse to be insignificant, and that makes me significant. I mean, look at me. An evolved being. Stood here, in a slanging match with a concept. Seems pretty fucking significant to me, wouldn’t you agree? I will not tolerate this feeling anymore. I will not tolerate endless hours of dropping my precious salt into the abyss, wistfully staring at those far away figures with beaming faces. What do they know that I don’t? Nothing! For an instance I saw through their eyes, and you know what, it was rather agreeable. I’m ready for happiness. I am a mortal man, I am significant and I want colour, damnit!” The silence of a hollow, lonely universe reverberated through my eardrums, clawing at my stomach. And then came the response. Colour. Not the kind of glorious colour akin to a sunbeam illuminating a palm tree, but colours of realism. Murky reds, gritty blues. Imperfection.

I look to you sometimes and recall drowning in your crystal smile. You will keep on eternally being you, and I will keep on trying to meet myself. I’ll stumble across him some day. Or maybe I won’t. I’m learning to accept imperfection.


© Copyright 2017 Bobby Owens. All rights reserved.

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