I and Reality

I was daydreaming , hearing nothing but cluttering resonance. While people go about their social gagging habits, (face and mouth involuntarily moving), my mind took me to the fields. Running and playing with the wind. At the end of what seems to be an infinite plane, a dark hole suddenly exists. The ground was engulfing, attractively sucking me in. I got out back to where I started–a table shared with peers, all eyes freakishly staring at my face. “Uhm, what was that again?” I disappear just like that.

I wonder sometimes if I exist. Do my feelings exist? Do they exist? I was only sure of one thing. They trust I exist. They trust I will exist for as long they want and/or need me. It was a pain to see people attach themselves to needs and wants. It was a pain to imagine their recurring memories. We cannot claim anything of this world though because this is a home for vicious humans with passion for owning. Even that they do not own.

I am but a passing traveler. Learning from he, she and them. I have realized their utmost desire for attention and they would do anything to attain that.

For weeks, I have been trying to finish the story of Maria. The dangerous urge to live it so I can fully understand her thinking. It would mean wiping away my existing reality and impersonating a character at a distance not known to anyone I know. Just like any other stories written, the end has precluded and consequences calculated. Sometimes, the character conquers that it’s beginning to eat my insides.

I’m not crazy. I’m aware of my eccentricity. The propensity of fear overcomes with such intensity to drown in believing I know too much..that I think too much.. that I wander too much.. that I can’t sleep because the mind fashions words as I would have written it.. that I have never let anyone in.

Growing up, I have learned that insatiable appetite for excellence can be a social liability. My interests are complex. I’ve watched faces taunted with what-the-fuck responses. So I had to acquire casual manner for speaking and behaving. I realized that some things need not be heard.

Maybe I’m not alone in thinking this way. They said I am. Alone. In thinking the way I do. But who cares? We are not what we do or say. We are not what we make. We are what we think, most of which we don’t relay.

Everyday, I hear people raise up microphones on their mouths affirming how superior they are. No one really is. It is rather a proof that music is superior. Calculus is or theoretical physics. Chemistry or arts. Vanity or rage. Power or monetary. We are to blame for making it. I don’t have a point in even writing this. This is just me dismembering pieces of my quiet neurons firing away into words.

Let me give you one final piece of advice. Nothing is factual. It is mere faith on your own reality sensibly existing. You will not know now but maybe tomorrow..or later.

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Abby Mabb

Snarly female. Occasional book reviewer.

Espen Stenersrød- From Pen To Heart

Jack Kerouac with a scent of Henry Vaughn

The Neighborhood

The Story within the Story

Gotta Find a Home

Conversations with Street People

Girly Dreams

"The hero of my tale, whom I love with all the power of my soul, whom I have tried to portray in all his beauty, who has been, is, and will be beautiful, is Truth." Leo Tolstoy

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