Blackpaper Notebook

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Day 1.

"Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind."
- Dr. Seuss (Theodor Seuss Geisel)

Submitted: March 24, 2015

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Submitted: March 24, 2015

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The twent-fourth of may, 2015. My head is cracking from a headache, one earned by having bad sleep for a long time now, waking up feeling broken and tired. My eyes have a tendency to close at any moment, waiting for me to let down my guard and keeping me tense at all time. But tense in the sence of forcing yourself to sit with your eyes open only, since my mind has fallen asleep a few hours after I started my work day this morning - leaving the body sitting in the office as a decoy. Soft and smeared-out over the comfy black leather bucket-chair. If little kids knew that zombie apocalypse was already a long time upon us, they'd be disapointed by how little blood was spilled by it, and terrified by how many of them would be part of it, once they grow up - brain-dead amobae, drifting automaticaly throug the office - from the cantine to the coffee table and back to the soft black shell of the chair. In this state I may occasionaly listen to music, distant sounds humming and drumming along to my conscience  absence - easing the transaction between the physical world and the dreamworld. Should I accidentaly turn this song on in the car back on my way home, I'd be amazed how bland the song actually is, lacking in theme, melody and character, but now though - it's the perfect soundtrack to the mindless static timelapse I'm stuck in. Listening to it over 9 times on repeat, not being able to recall the melody or a single passage from the song, later in the evening - once I'm functioning like a relatively normal adult, whith my brain-processes rushing around seemingy important desires of mine. The evening is the enchanted time of the day, along with the night itself - when the time starts rushing, slipping through your fingers like sand, flying away at a tempo close to lightspeed, countable by fingersnaps at most. Completely opposed to the cursed daytime - a thick wall of goo, stretching itself into ages, the little brother of the infinity of suffering bestowed by the likes Zeus and Odin upon their enemies and unfavorite heroes, or by the christian god upon the sinners simmering in the purgatory for the unspeakable horrors they have comitted. What about me? I have not accepted any bribes to relieve my neighbors of their guilt of jerking-off dreaming of someone else's wife. Nor have I fled from battle, and shamefully died of age in my bed years later. If this astonishing manipulation of the basic rules of physics is not an outside effect, is it me than? Am I a great magician, the great grey warden, destined to help destroy the one ring? Should we not consider being able to sleep into the afternoon, to gulp down a few pints in an eyeblink or having a disturbing affinity for blondes as great magic powers, I am afraid the hobbits are fated to suffer a few painful and tragic deaths. Four o'clock. Somebody storms into the office, becoming a smeared-out paintbrush on the canvas of my day, I feel like a millenium oak in the chaos of short-lived mammals. "- Sit, keep typing, the end is near", says my inside monologue cast-shouter. 

One more hour of this sleep-deprived nightmare and I will be free. I will never be free. Until I wake up. But to wake up, I need to fall asleep first, and that seems rather impossible if you never wake-up. Such an irony. Wake up, Neo


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