The Life & Times Of

i once had a large collection of books, leather-bound with golden lettering, before the fire took them. as a boy i dreamed of having a library, though i grew into not reading nearly as much. and then the books i bought i never read, nor even had the intention of reading, as i purchased them for their condition and their beauty. books judged by covers with contents disregarded, much in the same way other wealthy people keep feral animals as pets. they and i would much rather gloat about our captives than enjoy them and their companionship.
but now i lament the loss of my bookshelves, or at least the filled ones, as my partial collection has passed from this world into the eternally unread.
but those bookshelves, and yes, even those books, were simply a means to an end: an empty space behind one of them with a chain attached to one particularly hefty volume, swinging the whole thing out to a dusty staircase and half of a basement to myself.
in the books were secrets and behind them was my own. or at least, there would have been, if the fire hadn’t taken it before it finished. perhaps i’d have sat in there and read all of those books cover to cover, away from everyone, sitting down there alone, with an empty house above me, reading a volume of an especially beautiful foreign encyclopedia.
and maybe if it had been done the night of the fire, i’d have slowly suffocated in there, lost in a labyrinth of alphabetical facts, oblivious to my oblivion. if it were finished, maybe no one would have ever found me. but it wasn’t. so i didn’t.
regardless, if it were here, i would submerge myself in it and bathe in the solitude and silence. there is something peaceful about being lost to the world.
but it’s not.
so i won’t.

and so it all came crashing down. at first just the roofing collapsed down into itself, breaking everything in the attic with a smash. we were startled and stared up to the ceiling in wonderment. then even that started to crack. still, we did not move. and the walls started buckling, folding inwards, cracking the glass that showed us safety, and then shuttering black as if a light had been turned out. and then we started to act. trying to find a way out, but the weight of the walls had pushed our doors into the ground and they didn’t want to budge.
so we waited for the house to fold itself into squares with us along with it, over and under, accordion style. and we were internalized into its newfound two-dimensional-ness, pressed up against the walls, emoty open doors and windows showing nothing but blackness on the other side, if there were even still an other side.
the cardinal directions became our only directions as we climbed the shallow zig zag of the stairs back up to our paper beds to dream of a three dimensional world again, craving the depth of everything. we could only measure in distance. there was nothing to search for any more. we hoped we’d find some new game, some well of inspiration for our tired minds but we just found more paper cutouts of ourselves, pacing, unable to walk in circles, just backwards and forwards. trapped in the shell of what we once called home. our lives were over and yet we kept on living. without fulfillment.
and yet.

she listened to the rain fall with her door shut and blackout shades drawn. a summer storm had found its way to her and wrapped itself around her bedroom. she lost herself in the image of a gray sky with water pouring out of it, innumerable tiny drops, becoming one of them, hurtling towards the soggy treetops below, weaving in between leaves and branches and onto some stranger wearing a jean vest over a gray sweatshirt.

and so she became him, at first as a dark spot on his sweatshirt before seeping onto his skin, absorbing into his blood and coursing through his heart. and then sleep overtook her and she became him entirely, a little lost on a gray concrete path through gray-barked trees on a gray and rainy day. she was looking for something, which is to say that he was looking for something. she hoped he’d find it. 

there’s no point in eating if you aren’t ever moving. i haven’t strayed from my bed for days and i feel only the slightest pain of hunger.the warmth under these blankets has fed my hunger and i only seldom open my eyes. i expend my energy in dreams, making them real, touching them and feeling them as if they were not entirely in my mind. and so there i can exist on nothing but imagination, and my body does not need earthly sustenance. we only need to take in what we put forth, and if i stay in my bed for all eternity, i’ll never need a bite to eat again, and perhaps the earth will not claim me back up in death for i have taken nothing more from her.