Timothy Leary's Dead

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's an experimental take on living life purely in the moment, seen through the eyes of an Every(wo)man. It's okay--not the best I've ever written, but it's sweet, and I like it quite a lot.

Submitted: June 06, 2008

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Submitted: June 06, 2008

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I'm sitting here outside, on a lush green lawn, watching sunbeams filter through the leaves of the trees towering over me. It is springtime; in fact, I'm fairly certain that the month is May, although I don't know what year it is. Suddenly music floods my ear. Is the music real, or am I hallucinating? I'm not sure one way or the other, and it doesn't really concern me much. Strings swell and harmonic, albeit dissonant, voices rise up, but their words are indistinct,muffled. They must not be singing in English...or perhaps they are, and I just don't understand the language as well as I've always assumed.

A fragrant breeze is tussling my hair. What does the air smell like? It's hard for me to pinpoint exactly. Voices ring out from somewhere nearby, but they might as well be coming from another planet. They sound as though they are being uttered under water. My gaze shifts upward to the sky. It appears gummier than usual. The pastel pinks, yellows, and light oranges resemble the colors of chewy candy. When is the last time I've eaten? Possibly it hasn't been foryears.

I would tell you my name, but I don't know it. Perhaps I was never given one. In any case, it's really not so bad being nameless. None of the blades of grass upon which I sit have a name, as far as I know. There's a profound sense of liberty that comes with lacking a label, now that I think about it. I certainly feel free. The music in my ear is growing louder; the once-harmonious voices have now transformed into an atonal din, and the strings are slowly swelling as if approaching a musical climax. When they finally do reach this crescendo, I know that overpowering joy will be given new life inside of me.

When the music grows quiet at long last, I lay back and stare directly up into the sky. I am surprised to find that it is now a dark navy blue and filled with countless twinkling stars. Another breeze tickles my nose, and a sweet, gentle scent accompanies it. Suddenly I am fully, completely aware of what exactly the air smells like out here, of what is loaded in these springtime evening breezes: it is the smell of memories, of blissful remembrances of bygone eras. Are the memories my own? I can't answer that, as I'm not really sure who I am. Perhaps they do not belong to any one person but instead belong to the collective whole of humanity or even the entire cosmos. But they are beautiful, youthful, and above all else, pure. They make me smile as I lay here in the hazy uncertainty of a fragile universe.


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