Old Fiction Fragments
Fragment 1:
Those who are understood in their time are those who can only speak through paper rather than write with the permanence ink allows. Their message fades like the timer for an uber on your phone, for even being as remembered as a bus schedule is too daunting of a commitment for these timely souls. This is why I took leave of timely spaces, of the spaces that marvel at the coming and going of the latest popular drivel, sometimes for the very sake of its drivelity! Oh how I must be reminded that the newest superhuman film is derivative by a man as derivative as the sperm he likely wastes every night. But I am different you see. For I am mad. Mad in the old sense, crazy, cuckoo, a bit off the rocker, and frankly being insane makes me better than you if you are not. That is what I tell myself anyway. Because I did not tell myself I was mad, the doctors did. Now they were quaint and polite about it with their description breaking it down to inoffensive medical jargon. Schizoaffective they say. If they have the right to tell me what I am, why do I not have the right to tell you what you are? Inferior I say! Inferior they say too. Maybe not explicitly, but their looks say it all. Or the lack thereof. Good! I find my lonesome to be good company thank you very much. Now you may be wondering why I am better than you? That is why am I declared mad?
Fragment 2:
Light breathes into a dry space as if to make it reckon with its own terms as the catatonic rhythm of ambience brings a sedentary organism into a zero entropy dance. Surfaces of domestication meant to deny the curves of the earth have parked their power through one of the many condoms apes have made to mask their appendages as they relentlessly sodomize this planet. Yet all this architectural ingenuity could muster in the soul of this impotent modern man was but a pinch and an itch. But this modern man in his impotence and squeamishness is still driven even by a pinch to shiver his inertia apart stretching up as his ratcheting bones bend forward. In an equally spontaneous and petty display of power the modern man kicks his chair behind him.
Fragment 3:
The world is but a grand contraction of memories, the salt of our tears running headfirst to the future from the ocean it once danced with the fishes in. Or was it sleeping with the fishes? Does that make reconstitution a sort of reincarnation? Perhaps, perhaps not, it is only salt after all. But we are 60% water not much more lively than the salt this water used to carry. But the world is not only memories is it? Otherwise how would she move? With all those memories contorted into the beginning of time would the world not already be complete? The present lives. She is the vitality of this world, the infinite present. What makes this present move? Contorting memories into ever new forms? Pain? Greed? Fear? Lust? Love? Perhaps all. Perhaps none. Or maybe the world has not moved an inch. And she is but one large memory we keep forgetting. Perhaps. Eternity and vitality, truth and creativity, fate and freedom. Beautiful or horrifying as these dichotomies may be, I am not being paid to tell you which is the true side, or if there even is one true side really. I am merely here to let the particular memories sedate you away from such big questions. Nostalgia is a drug. My name is Bergson Leraull and I run a memory pawn shop. I could have worked at a memory thrift store but I aināt no charity case. People come here to have their memories yanked out, duplicated, and sold. They could sell their memories at a better price online but this technology is not cheap to come by and it could be dangerous to use without proper know-how. Not that we have not had our fair share of accidents here, but that is why we always have folks sign the contract. Totally clears our hands. Our work still is seen as a recreational procedure so authorities are not all too concerned with policing an operation for people doing it for perceived reasons of fun at their own risk. Yes, as you could guess most who come here do not read the contract. But that is on them. You think I am a villain? Maybe. But guess what? I am one of those saps who got brain damage trying this procedure. I had some things I wanted to forget. Some things that I wanted to remove from my wings so I could fly again. But doing so was not easy and I ended up getting psychosis for two weeks followed by a chronic headache that has not gone away in 5 years. I did not read the contract either because they did not even have contracts back when humans first started making this crap. People were so giddy about this technology, they thought it would open peopleās hearts to new forms of compassion. One of the creators was an atheist who wanted to copy the mystical experiences of religious folk to try and get into their heads a bit more. Once he started using the machine for such experiences instead of becoming some enlightened universalist he became a junkie of spirituality. He would pay top dollar for monks to come in everywhere from Italy to Tibet to try and find the rawest spiritual memories. However as time went these mystics began to feel like they were being exploited (because they were) and spiritual experiences became more and more rare. People would try to breach into monasteries and become enlightened so they could sell new spiritual experiences to the highest bidder but this only made monasteries become more and more insular. Spirituality began to be closed off to the masses even more than it already was in a deep sense, even though spiritual experiences were more common than ever due to the selling of spiritual memories on the free market. It was as though God had stopped talking to us once we uncovered the meaning of his language. I tried a dose of mystical experience once. Honestly a bit overrated, a lot of light shows and āonenessā type vibes. But I do not want to be one with this soulless mass of dregs. I am fine just sitting here chugging caffeine and making a buck to buy me a fancy new cup to put my coffee into.