CaptainWacky
I want to smell dark matter
"THERE IS NOTHING!" he howled into the night, and actually did feel a slight echo of satisfaction briefly forming in his addled mind, much to his annoyance.
He knew there was nothing significant about getting out of his bed at 4am, walking in the dark to the field near his house, going up to the top of the hill and shouting down "THERE IS NOTHING!" at the sheep below. But he'd done it anyway.
And, by doing it, hadn't he made it significant? Hadn't he given it significance?
That thought only added to his annoyance.
Nothing is significant but what we make significant.
Everything is in the mind. He wanted to carve his mind out with a spoon. But he had to settle for shouting at sheep.
"BOOO!" he shouted. The sheep didn't react. Were they even sheep? OF COURSE THEY WERE SHEEP! What else could they be?
He was going mad, he thought.
Nah, not mad, just tired. Only tired.
It was annoying that he'd sleep all day and stay up all night. He'd decided that he should do something crazy during the night. This was because he had previously decided that he'd NEVER do something crazy during the night. He was crazy...he was altered. Different. He was different, yes, but he wasn't the kind of crazy person who actually DOES anything crazy.
He never much did anything at all, because nothing ever felt real or worthwhile to him, and when he did briefly feel emotions another part of his brain would cruelly mock him for it and they'd be quickly stamped out as lies.
All lies.
Anything significant he ever appeared to do was simply a lie of context.
He sat down and looked at the sheep. Maybe he should write a song.
I sit down and look at sheep below,
I sit and feel the time flow,
Death is soon but why not now,
Make no difference no matter how,
Lie to myself about.fh..b
jhdf
sd
gh
sfh
fg
No.
Too much brain junk for songs now. Maybe once. No more. His concentrating days were gone. All there was left was waiting for death. Accept it.
But because he was, technically, still alive, there was part of him that COUDLN'T accept it. There was part of him that still wanted to fight. And the only way to fight the truth is to lie.
He allowed himself to lie.
(A depressed man in his mid twenties is sitting at the top of a hill looking at sheep. A pretty 19 year old farmer's daughter walks up behind him. He doesn't see her.)
Man: Life is so fucking pointless. I CAN'T GO ON.
Girl: What you going to do instead?
(He turns round, startled, embarrassed. She's so pretty!)
Man: How do you mean?
Girl: Well, if you're not going to live, you'll have to die, surely.
Man: No! I can just...sit here. Watching sheep.
Girl: You can't live and yet not live! Life is a game and you're in the game for as long as you're alive, whether you like it or not.
Man: I want to play another game.
Girl: Maybe you should change the rules.
Man: I can't! I can't even talk to people.
Girl: You're doing a pretty good job with me.
Man: That's different, this is only a play I'm writing in my head to stave off madness.
Girl: Is it? Or is this the true reality? You think everything's a lie anyway, so this fantasy is just as real as anything else.
Man: That makes perfect sense.
(They kiss and lie together on the soft morning grass, making love before the sheep.)
All lies.
NO ANSWERS
NO GIRLS.
NOTHING
NOT FOR ME.
NOT PART OF HUMANITY.
NO POINT FUCKING LYING.
YOU'LL FUCKING REALISE IT'S A LIE.
EVERY TIME
AND THEN WHERE WILL YOU BE.
BACK TO THE TRUTH.
AND EVEN WORSE.
BEACSUE YOU FELT BETTEr.
AND IF YOU FEEL BETTER FOR A MOMENT, IT JUST REMINDS YOu.
OF WHAT YOU CAN NEVER GET BACK.
OF WHAT YOU NEVER GOT IN THE FIRST PALCE.
Besides, you're not a writer.
He really did lie down on the grass though and sleep.
He was in a submarine and the commander was angry at him for eating too many noodles, so he walked away crying and found an apple under a blanket but before he could eat it the worms consumed it and he had no apple...
He woke up and the farmer's daughter was there, laughing at him. Nope, still a dream.
He woke up for real and promtly went back to sleep.
He didn't dream again.
He woke up for real and realised that he really had just done something crazy, sleeping outdoors. It wasn't the kind of thing he did.
But it wasnt' significant either. It wasn't a turning point. Life would just go on for him, the same as before. And even if things did change a little, even if he was fully crazy now...he was still HIM. He still had his life. He still had his brain chemistry. And he's always be himself, always have his life, always have his brain chemistry, until the day he died.
He dragged himself home. As he did so he heard the mocking voice of the farmer's daughter telling him to just change! To just be normal! that's what everyone was saying about him, wasn't it?
In fact, no one was saying anything about him. No one knew he existed.
He was almost home. He froze. The milkmen were doing their rounds. There was a milk float in front of his house. What would he do? He stood, wondering.
It drove away. No one in it even looked at him. He went home.
He went back to bed.
He got up the next morning. His face hurt. Everything hurt. He couldn't describe his hurt. It was all so fucking pointless.
He dragged himself on. He was sure this time that he wasn't lying anymore, that there was no hope, even hidden. There was no part of him that wanted to fight still, no part that believed he would get better. He was just dragging himself through the day because...just because. That was all.
The only words he said all day were "shut up" and they were too himself whenever he thought about life too much.
He knew there was nothing significant about getting out of his bed at 4am, walking in the dark to the field near his house, going up to the top of the hill and shouting down "THERE IS NOTHING!" at the sheep below. But he'd done it anyway.
And, by doing it, hadn't he made it significant? Hadn't he given it significance?
That thought only added to his annoyance.
Nothing is significant but what we make significant.
Everything is in the mind. He wanted to carve his mind out with a spoon. But he had to settle for shouting at sheep.
"BOOO!" he shouted. The sheep didn't react. Were they even sheep? OF COURSE THEY WERE SHEEP! What else could they be?
He was going mad, he thought.
Nah, not mad, just tired. Only tired.
It was annoying that he'd sleep all day and stay up all night. He'd decided that he should do something crazy during the night. This was because he had previously decided that he'd NEVER do something crazy during the night. He was crazy...he was altered. Different. He was different, yes, but he wasn't the kind of crazy person who actually DOES anything crazy.
He never much did anything at all, because nothing ever felt real or worthwhile to him, and when he did briefly feel emotions another part of his brain would cruelly mock him for it and they'd be quickly stamped out as lies.
All lies.
Anything significant he ever appeared to do was simply a lie of context.
He sat down and looked at the sheep. Maybe he should write a song.
I sit down and look at sheep below,
I sit and feel the time flow,
Death is soon but why not now,
Make no difference no matter how,
Lie to myself about.fh..b
jhdf
sd
gh
sfh
fg
No.
Too much brain junk for songs now. Maybe once. No more. His concentrating days were gone. All there was left was waiting for death. Accept it.
But because he was, technically, still alive, there was part of him that COUDLN'T accept it. There was part of him that still wanted to fight. And the only way to fight the truth is to lie.
He allowed himself to lie.
(A depressed man in his mid twenties is sitting at the top of a hill looking at sheep. A pretty 19 year old farmer's daughter walks up behind him. He doesn't see her.)
Man: Life is so fucking pointless. I CAN'T GO ON.
Girl: What you going to do instead?
(He turns round, startled, embarrassed. She's so pretty!)
Man: How do you mean?
Girl: Well, if you're not going to live, you'll have to die, surely.
Man: No! I can just...sit here. Watching sheep.
Girl: You can't live and yet not live! Life is a game and you're in the game for as long as you're alive, whether you like it or not.
Man: I want to play another game.
Girl: Maybe you should change the rules.
Man: I can't! I can't even talk to people.
Girl: You're doing a pretty good job with me.
Man: That's different, this is only a play I'm writing in my head to stave off madness.
Girl: Is it? Or is this the true reality? You think everything's a lie anyway, so this fantasy is just as real as anything else.
Man: That makes perfect sense.
(They kiss and lie together on the soft morning grass, making love before the sheep.)
All lies.
NO ANSWERS
NO GIRLS.
NOTHING
NOT FOR ME.
NOT PART OF HUMANITY.
NO POINT FUCKING LYING.
YOU'LL FUCKING REALISE IT'S A LIE.
EVERY TIME
AND THEN WHERE WILL YOU BE.
BACK TO THE TRUTH.
AND EVEN WORSE.
BEACSUE YOU FELT BETTEr.
AND IF YOU FEEL BETTER FOR A MOMENT, IT JUST REMINDS YOu.
OF WHAT YOU CAN NEVER GET BACK.
OF WHAT YOU NEVER GOT IN THE FIRST PALCE.
Besides, you're not a writer.
He really did lie down on the grass though and sleep.
He was in a submarine and the commander was angry at him for eating too many noodles, so he walked away crying and found an apple under a blanket but before he could eat it the worms consumed it and he had no apple...
He woke up and the farmer's daughter was there, laughing at him. Nope, still a dream.
He woke up for real and promtly went back to sleep.
He didn't dream again.
He woke up for real and realised that he really had just done something crazy, sleeping outdoors. It wasn't the kind of thing he did.
But it wasnt' significant either. It wasn't a turning point. Life would just go on for him, the same as before. And even if things did change a little, even if he was fully crazy now...he was still HIM. He still had his life. He still had his brain chemistry. And he's always be himself, always have his life, always have his brain chemistry, until the day he died.
He dragged himself home. As he did so he heard the mocking voice of the farmer's daughter telling him to just change! To just be normal! that's what everyone was saying about him, wasn't it?
In fact, no one was saying anything about him. No one knew he existed.
He was almost home. He froze. The milkmen were doing their rounds. There was a milk float in front of his house. What would he do? He stood, wondering.
It drove away. No one in it even looked at him. He went home.
He went back to bed.
He got up the next morning. His face hurt. Everything hurt. He couldn't describe his hurt. It was all so fucking pointless.
He dragged himself on. He was sure this time that he wasn't lying anymore, that there was no hope, even hidden. There was no part of him that wanted to fight still, no part that believed he would get better. He was just dragging himself through the day because...just because. That was all.
The only words he said all day were "shut up" and they were too himself whenever he thought about life too much.
