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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 5 years

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The Rise and Fall of the Middle

Chapter 1: Show Your Work

“Who in the world am I? Ah, that is the great Puzzle”

Lewis Carroll

Almost all of us start the same place. The first years of school serve us as a marker for the future. We are collected, cataloged, and groomed for a life of education. Each day in early life is filled with the promise of more. There is always more to understand. The world is a vast collection of data that we will never fully grasp, but constantly manage to chip away at. Our ability to comprehend complex matters that started long before our own story are what I feel inherently make us human.

Take for example the alphabet. It is one of the very first teaching points, and yet we don't consider it's origins until much later in life. We do not teach young children that these weird symbols stem from an ancient Latin origin. Children do not question where the symbols come from. We accept from the earliest ages that these odd scribble holds value. They will provide us a key to countless door, and elevate us to a world we can't begin to fathom. The goals of each child might differ, but the end result is the same. Once you have learned this, more is waiting for you.

I can not speak for the current state of the school system, but in my experience creative approaches to solved problems were not acceptable. Math is a great example of this. I doubt I am the only person who was told to “show your work”. While in practice, this request would appear to prevent some from cheating, it can also stifle the ability to think critically. The downfall of the “show your work” system is, the answer may remain the same, but how you get there is more important. It would seem in the haste of reaching our end result, we have forgotten to cater to a growing mind. We force a narrow minded approach to a situation, that could in fact allow for a much more engaged approach.

Even now I can hear the chanting of “Don't reinvent the wheel!”. I can feel the pull of a dozen voices all saying “This is the way we do things.”. Despite this, I can not feel that a degree of value is missed. Let's take for a look at the process of learning. Why do we start with the alphabet?

The answer to this seems simple enough. It is a cornerstone. By decoding these twenty-six symbols, we have taken our first steps towards communicating in a second language. You read that correctly. While we may not think of written English and spoken English as separate languages, I would argue that they are. We are taught to sound out letters for spelling. Is this nothing more than translation? We are taught to recognize commonly used words like “cat” and “bat”. Is this not the same process for learning another language?

For a majority of children, speaking comes long before reading or writing. We learn speech by mimicking our parents and associating real world consequences with those words. It is not a huge leap to realize most of our first words were likely “no” as we explored something our parents might find dangerous. Even “dada” or “momma” are simple associations of the person in front of you continuously repeating and pointing at themselves. So now that we have figured out how to learn, let's dig deeper in to how it functions.

Learning at it's most core level, appears to me at least, to be a series of recognizing patterns. While repetition is the most common method of achieving this, as in the momma/dadda method, I can't speak at all to it's efficiency. We are, by nature, repetitive creatures. Most of us have a favorite restaurant we frequent, or a movie we watch on repeat. I am willing to bet, you even have a series you binge watch over and over. The down fall of this behavior seems to be when our pattern is disrupted. If your restaurant closes, how you you react? If your favorite series is no longer available to view, how do you feel? This interruption to our repetition ignites an emotional response in us.

When applied to the process of teaching and learning, we do not see a change. When you are taught your alphabet, it is done over days and weeks of repetition. When you are taught the summation of two plus two, it is done on flash cards, and repeated until you can parrot it back. The fault of this thinking comes from the child who counts on their fingers, or makes marks on a paper. This child has shown that they do not just accept two scribbles to equal another scribble. They have asked “why”. They may struggle to show their work by marking a 2 + 2 on paper, because they have thought about this critically. It is more than just symbols to them, there is a reason for the answer.

This child has recognized that there is a pattern in the education before them, and set out to find an answer. They will be celebrated in their early years. They might even be moved to a gifted class, because this child has recognized the essence of learning. They have taken the first steps to understanding that in questioning the origin of something, you gain a deeper understanding in it's functions.

And yet, what happens as the child grows? At what point do we turn the corner to “Do not reinvent the wheel.”, or “This is the way it is.”? At what point in our lives do we stop accepting that the “why” of life is the key to more, and start hammering away at the all definitive “Because I said so.”. At what point do we stop looking to grow, and improve on the topics and subjects at hand? When do we look at the answer and say that it is good enough? How do we reach a point where we stop looking at the problems of our world, and finalize on these solutions?

It is a lot to ask, and even more to answer. The state of our lives is a lulled and sleepy one. While we never stop learning, it is undeniable that we severely reduce our efforts. Whether through being told that the answer “just is” enough times, or just genuinely finding dissatisfaction with the answers at hand, almost all of us eventually slow our efforts to improve.

My youth was filled with promises of being able to accomplish anything. Even then I remember telling the teacher that they told every student that. Of course they protested. That was their job. I was told early on that I was special. I was moved to advanced classes because of my ability to think critically. They wanted to inspire a creative thinker, but only if that creative thinker followed the bounds and parameters that suck to their pattern. These advanced classes had an excess of one thing. They insisted you show your work.

Personal Notes:

**Let's take a break here. I decided that through this book, I am going to take some chances to better explain myself to you at key points. For example: I realize how dangerously close I am coming to a “color inside the lines” argument. I wanted to take this paragraph to explain that I am in no way arguing with the processes at hand. This is not some conspiracy about being trained how to think. The entire purpose of this chapter is to establish a premise for how a wide eyed “gifted” child can turn in to an insignificant adult. I am well aware that the examples provided in these paragraphs are open to speculation. They serve their purpose for demonstrating a mindset.**

When we review the patterns of learning, we can very easily make a connection to how showing your work will turn out. We have already seen this child start questioning why number work the way they do. It is well within reason that they will question why they need to show their work. The answer here will vary wildly, even when looking at the same child. I remember thinking that it was because teachers did not trust me. The next day I would assume it was because they wanted me to do it their way. By the end of this process, the damage was done. I had settled on not knowing the answer, and had a much more important question haunting me. “How do I show on paper that I just get it?”

It is fair to say, in retrospect, that I might have invested in my own hype. Maybe the other kids didn't get it. Maybe I was picking it up quicker. Who am I to say how smart I really am? The only person I can actively compare it to is myself, because if I have these detailed thoughts questioning everything, who is to say others don't? It's not as if they would vocalize it. I certainly didn't.

The second downfall of the show your work thinking, and the inevitable “How do I show on paper that I get it?” mindset, was a feeling of responsibility to have an answer. This led to a very nasty lying habit. If I didn't have an answer, I would simply make one up. If I knew something, but couldn't explain how, I had to come up with a reason. Of course the lying itself would grow to spiral out of control. I felt a need to be special. I had an urge to live up to who I was being told I was.

At one point the class was being asked about their pets at home. I spun some story about a goldfish I had that could jump through hoops on command. No one believed me. So I aspired to be a better liar. I had a need to be different. I felt a drive to be better than those around me. At that time it was more important to me to learn “why” people chose to believe a story, than it was to just be honest about my boring gold fish.

This kind of learning did not follow a typical pattern of repetition, at least out loud. It simply could not. The class laughing at my unbelievable goldfish story had hurt too much. It was too embarrassing. So the process of telling lies over and over until it made sense would not have worked. It would need to be approached through the method of observation.

It's obvious to see where this mindset was headed. I spent a lot of time in trouble. Finding believable lies was so much harder than telling the truth, but it was something I would learn to do. It was a challenge, and smart people never backed down from a challenge. If I could recognize a pattern of what people would find believable, I would be able to be the smartest person in the room. I would have the most amazing stories, about the most unbelievable things, and not be... well me.

I knew who I was. I was born to a poor family. I was the child of soon to be divorced parents. I lived in a house that had burned down, and with clothes that were donated by other kids. I was the kid who was always in trouble for one thing or another. I certainly was not special, but someone believed I was. If I could convince them of that, I could convince them of anything.

The stories I would come to tell through my next years in life got better, but never lost their unbelievably. The more I managed to convince people I was something else, the less time I had to spend being me. In point of fact, isn't that exactly what it meant to be whatever you wanted? If you could dream it you could be it, no matter the social, financial, or parental standing.

That is enough of about me. Let's return to the essence of learning. This example provides us a look at how quickly value can take root. It allows us to see how, for better or worse, when there is no structured learning system it still occurs and flourishes. Most importantly, it is a look a how a pattern formed, and produced a learning experience. It is a learning method that did follow a pattern, without the need for repetition. Although it is undeniable that repetition did make it better over time.

I feel it is also important to review the end line here. The Insignificant Adult who can't rise above their station is a theme I see among many of those around me. The idea that we are handed this lot in life, and the window to fix it has closed, leaves a lot to be questioned. When did we become this mundane monstrosity? At what point in this story did we stop being the hero challenging the world? What happened to cause so many of us to take a passenger roll in our own lives?

I believe the answer to this all comes back to the time the detachment of our social needs. As we grew, we had a sloppily structured calendar. We would wake up early to get to school, but then would spend countless hours interacting with peers. Most of us in a working family would spend more time with friends than with family. We would come home to untapped hours were we got to explore personal interests and dream big.

By comparison, as an adult, the social element is more and more removed. For most of us, we wake up to the same hour, of the same day, of the same week. We go to a job with coworkers, but adversely need to spend our time focus on the task at hand. We have limited interaction with the people around us. If you work some form of customer facing job, you are likely to slip in to a trance like state in an attempt to just make it through the day. You probably have a “work self” that you need to maintain. You use this persona to hide your interests, temper your expectations, and control your emotions.

All of this leads to a sense of helplessness. You want to reach out, but are afraid of the ramifications if you do. You want to connect, but are afraid that exposing yourself will lead to rejection, or worse might cost you your lifestyle. You want to explore your creative passions, but have a nagging feeling that you should be doing something else, like socializing. In summation, you just aren't getting enough living out of life.

If you are still reading by this point, you may be asking “Well what can I do to fix it?”. There are no easy answers here. Being an adult in today's world requires these things of you. Your creation of that “work self” was a necessity born from the environment you work in. If you work in an office, you fear the repercussions of being unprofessional. You know that stress levels are high, expectations are higher, and there is no room for you and your opinions. Despite what HR tells you. If you work retail, your “work self” was created in a mimicry of the lack of humanity you are shown. You shut off yourself because you will get yelled at, chewed out, and blamed for everything. Even when it comes to following the rules. If you were able to turn off that work self when you got home, maybe there would be a level of redemption.

So you make it home. Your inner sanctum. Your closed doors where you are able to be yourself. There are a few snags here. Now you have to socialize. You haven't gotten a chance all day to see a welcoming side of humanity that wasn't paid for. So you reach out to friends, or family, or social media in an attempt to feel some warmth from another person. The downside being that they have all had the same experience you have. So now you spend your time comparing battle scars, or worse dominate the conversation with how bad your day really was.

By the end of this encounter, that has likely drained away precious hours of your self exploration time. Has it helped you unwind? When you are done talking about your day, are you done thinking about it? Have you managed to move past the pitfalls, or do they haunt your thoughts and continue to come up? Do you dwell on conversations and interactions? I ask you, has this social encounter left you filled with hope and the power to carry out another day?

Some will say yes. This book is not being written for them. It is for those of you that have said no that I am writing this. This is for the twenty something who is wondering when they became the “adult”. This is written for the 30 something, who looks at their social media and wonders why everyone else seems to be adjusting just fine. For the person who clocks out, but can't leave work at work.

It is my hope, that through this book, I will help at least one person look at their life for what it truly is. That the one person will evaluate their situation, and realize that there is not a fantasy out there waiting, but that it is going to be okay. I am hoping that by the end of this, the macabre of normalcy will be seen for the beautiful world that we live in. That each person who reads this will realize that you are not helpless. You are still the hero of your own story. You just need to change the narrative. You have done a lot of work, so let's start by showing it.

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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 5 years

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The Rise and Fall of the Middle

-Preface-

The purpose of this script is not meant to be a rallying cry for the masses. It is not meant to rise through the ranks of infamy, or to become the voice of a generation. At the time of this writing, I do not know whether these words typed will reach one heart, or a million. The sole reason for this writing is to document one man's thoughts and feelings, from a non political stand point, on the world around him

If it should turn out that, by reading these words, you feel a pull to act in some form, I want it known that it was nothing more than a personal yearning and interpretation. I am not a scholar on the state of the world. I do not claim to understand the affairs of politicians, or the state of economics. I am a humble working stiff. I drive a car I know nothing about. I go to bed each night in an apartment I can hardly afford, on furniture I did not build, and wake up each morning to go serve a company I will never own. My aspirations, and my future, are no more under my control than those countless souls around me who are living day to day.

It is for this reason, that I feel a need to write this manuscript. I can feel the statistical cry of mediocrity around me, and yet am powerless to make even the slightest change to that station. I look at my friends and family, and I see the same sullen faces. They have bills to pay, but a child like reach to a brighter tomorrow that will likely never see.

To that end, this book should be taken at face value. It is a collection of thoughts, ideas, and the nonsensical dreams of one man.

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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 5 years

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Dream Journal: 12/24/2018

Preface: I must apologize for the sloppinessof this post. I am away from my computer and writing from my phone. Is this important enough to be included? I personally can not say. It lacked a certain essence that my other recorded dreams had. I was not only able to showcase defiance, but I held no semblance of fear that would have been active in other dreams. For whatever the reason, this dream stands out. I was in a school assembly of some type. Nothing was being discussed, but the entire school was there. Several federal officers showed up. I was immediately singled out for questioning. A male officer of nondescript look interrogated me on the location of "the book". He pulled what I would consider a typical threatening demeanor. During the interrogation, he would demand the location of "the book". He would offer some sarcastic quip about how people were dying while I played games. In all honesty, I had no clue what this guy was talking about, but I also didn't like the brute force approach. To say I rebelled against this interrogation would be fair. The discussion came to a tipping point when I finally asked him "what is the name of the book?" He couldn't answer. Which is already odd, as through this whole line of questioning a dozen books popped in my head. I felt a general lack of knowledge on this book he wanted. I finally called him out on not knowing the name of the book. He did not admit to not knowing, but his demeanor revealed he did not. After the man was done questioning me, I looked around the benches, all eyes were on me. Unblinking, unflinching, and not surprisingly they were a mixture of curious and angry. It was almost as if they knew more about what this man was talking about than I did. He left while I was looking around, but a woman approached me, advising that of I wanted to know more I should sneak in to the cafeteria of the school. I instead went through the front door. I genuinely wasn't buying in to any of this, and whatever was in the cafeteria would have continued this game. After entering the school, my attention was drawn to the left. A small collective of people were set up, and the partner of the previous agent was waiting. She motioned me over, because there was something she thought I should see. She motioned to a projector where someone was strapped to a table. The short video showed the person having their eyes removed with a jagged spoon drill bit. This is where the dream ends... Was it worth including in the journal? I can't be sure. You be the judge.

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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 5 years

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The Cabin: Part 3

I look around calmly. I know this voice. I can not place it's significance or meaning, but I have heard it's words before. My eyes move to the record player first. I can not see it from my seated position, but I am certain the sound came from much closer. Next I turn my focus to the counter. To my surprise, the books that were once scattered and waterlogged, are now stacked and in pristine condition.

The voice comes back in waves, as if struggling to break through some unseen barrier. While it is more clear, there is still the toned echo of being at the bottom of a well. A female voice shouts from somewhere near me. " Every night! It's like your obsessed! You don't eat! You don't sleep! You're killing yourself!" The voice fades away to sobs, but is quickly followed by a second voice. This one is further, seemingly from the direction of the counter. Voice is distinctly male, and shares the same echoing waves that the female voice demonstrated. " The answer is here. I can find it. Mathers and Holland were so close. It's here. I know..."

A shriek erupts from the first voice. A loud clatter of wood hitting the ground echoes around me, as the shriek travels in the direction of the counter. "She is gone! She wouldn't have wanted this! These stupid books are stopping you from living!!" No sooner has the voice finished speaking, the books are flung across the counter in the direction of the sink. The clean and clear water splashes over the sides, and cascades along the floor.

Silence falls over the cabin again. I am filled again with a sense of urgency. My mind is assaulted by the idea that the end is coming, and I must hurry. I know that if I do not finish my task, I will awaken in the sands again, desperately clinging to these malformed memories, as faded as the fabric of the arm chair to my left.

While I am maintaining my composure, I must admit that my hair stands on end. I try to gather my faculties, as I note the change in the water. Was it not rust colored before? Did my mind create that change, or is there more at play here? I recall this conversation more in depth now. The male voice was looking for some kind of key. Something that would lead to bringing "her" back. I can feel a growing closeness to the ethereal voice, as I too am looking for answers. I need to find the key to breaking this cycle.

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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 5 years

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Dream Volumes: 12/14

It's been awhile since I have had a dream that truly stood out. I have avoided writing about the simple ones. I felt that unless there is some malice or something truly odd that it was not worth writing. Tonight was such a night, that I do believe it is worth detailing to the best of my ability. Even now I can feel the facts of the dream fading, which comes as no great shock considering the oddity that it was.

My wife, my best friend, several people I don't recognize, and myself all were going to the theater. I am can't recall what deal was made, but for whatever the reason I was in charge of picking the movie we saw. I recognized one of the titles as a psychological thriller that I had enjoyed in the past. Knowing that my friends would enjoy the movie, I picked it.

I don't recall entering the theater, or even the movie starting. I was certain however that I had seen the movie before, as I knew every part of it. Up to the start of the movie the dream was normal, and everything flowed as would be expected in reality. However once it started the world became a twisted travisty that only best attempts can describe.

Consider, if you will, a mash up combination of The Great Gatsby, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, and a serial killer movie of undisclosed title. The movie followed the main character and his friends as they were spending what I assume is a summer vacation together. It would start with a normal scene of the actors jumping in the water, laughing, and enjoying their time together. Then at odd intervals include a scene that didn't fit. The scene itself would not be outwardly obvious that it didn't fit, but something would catch the eye that could best be described as a "glitch".

For this example we will discuss the biggest scene that comes to mind. The main character and his friends were at a club. As they enter the club, the camera begins to zoom in on the character, shortly before it encompasses the characters full body, the bottom of the stairs disappear from under his feet. He continues walking up them, but they are no longer there. This change is only for a brief moment, and those who were with me missed the subtle change. The scene would then continue as normal, he would be drinking with them, laughing, discussing matters. In the next moments, a body would be found.

The real curiosity of the movie would take the form of subtle hints. A single line about how no one had seen the character for 5 or so minutes, when you had just watched him interacting with them. This, while easy to miss, lead to the conclusion that the main character had something to do with the murders. He simply was not aware of the deaths.

For myself, this dream really took an odd turn during the middle of the movie. Not only was I in the movie, I was the main character. The part of the movie that had never previously been revealed was that the character (now me) was hearing a voice. This voice is uncomfortable to describe, as I can no longer hear the words, but the tone still echoes in my ears. I can not remember exactly what was said, but the voice suggest that it was still here. It told me that it was in control. It would be give that same hopeless feeling that the previous dreams had, all while I was conversing with friends. Then I would snap back to reality, be at around them, and another body would be found.

I can not speak to the rest of the dream. It has faded in to obscurity, but I definitely felt as though this was worth chronicling.

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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 6 years

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Dream Volumes: What was that sound?

Do you ever convince yourself of something being a reality, and because of that, you watch things around you happen? Things that point to themselves as proof positive, towards the idea, that you have convinced yourself must be true. An example of this is luck. People think that by carrying certain items, or wearing special clothes, they can affect the world around them. I only mention this because that is the state of my mind since I have started recording these. I have convinced myself “Nothing is really happening here. You are projecting an idea, and looking for evidence to back it up.” To that end, I can never be certain if my return to studying the occult is the reason I see proof of the creature stalking the shadows. It might be just as likely that the proof is there because of this creature.

Until last night it was mostly peaceful. Dreams have had little to no meaning, and have been mostly forgettable. The sense of being out of my control has prevailed. True to my nature, it has been faced with a lack of concern. The idea that “If I can’t control it, why should I care” has no doubt posed a serious threat to the creature stalking my dreams. No matter what has been thrown my way, it was met with a subtle shrugging off. I have convinced myself, that through this lack of worry, I am regaining control.

Despite this, I have been tired. So incredibly tired. Not for a lack of sleep, I have been sleeping more than ever. That in itself should be enough cause for concern. I am left with quandaries that don’t speak to a rational mind. Is something feeding on me? Is some external force making me more tired than normal? To what degree is that energy taken being used to affect things around me?

The dream last night is a curiosity. The same hopelessness persisted. A creature, mostly mechanical was killing, and taking over the world. The same sense of “there is nothing you can do to stop this” was the focus of the dream, but after displaying the same unfeeling mentality, we (the survivors) were given a key to beat the mechanical monster. Located on the bottom of one this creatures many tentacle like feet was a small port, no bigger than a USB drive. By plugging a chip in to it’s foot, it would shut off. It would not be easy to accomplish, but it was a bit of hope that allowed me to set aside the mindset of “why should I care?”

The curious nature comes from the overwhelming dread I felt after this solution was found. I immediately woke up, startled by something I can’t place my finger on. I remember the feeling of irritation, mixed with smugness. I was wide awake, looking around the room. I was certain that it was this creature stalking the shadows that had woke me. I was left to reflect on the idea that in giving me an option to succeed, it was the first break in the “there is nothing you can do” that had occurred since the dreams of the door started. Why the sudden change? Has this thing grown bored with my altruistic attitude?

It would be remiss to not mention the proof of it’s existence I have gotten outside of my dream state. Keep in mind I can reason all of these matters away. To some varying degrees I have, but I must ask myself, at what point does it become hiding from the truth.

The first demonstration I have seen was one that still bothers me. A moth had been calling the light over my office home. When the light there would go off, it would return to the kitchen, connected to my office, and spend time around the light over the sink. It was late, it was dark, and I was sitting on the couch playing a game. I don’t recall what noise caught my attention first, but I looked down at the light being cast from the kitchen sink. I saw a shadow there, the size of a head. It darted quickly, and at that same moment I heard the noise of shuffling come from my kitchen. This was not a small sound, like feet shuffling. It sounded like boxes of things being moved. Like if you were to drag one box over another. Naturally when I checked the kitchen, nothing was there.

Surely the product of an overactive imagination...

The second, and most recent comes from this morning. My wife had just left for work. The apartment was dark, as I didn’t feel the need to turn on the lights. Again, something caught my attention, but I can’t say what or why. I happened to be looking in the direction of our bedroom. At that moment, a low and guttural growl could be heard. It was not like any creature I can place. It was too low to be a dog. Even so I don’t have any pets.

Naturally I don’t react to any of these happenings. I don’t feel fear towards this. The stance I have taken is that if I am not crazy, then this is an excellent chance for experimentation and learning. If I am crazy, then why be afraid of my own mind? I intend to hold on to the mentality of “If I am not in control, then I will gain control through not caring.”

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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 6 years

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The Cabin Part 2

My breath catches in my throat as the record stops spinning. The counting ceases, and I am left again in the deafening silence of the cabin. The wind does not blow here. There is no chattering from insects. The hush of the area is thick enough that my own thoughts echo in a shout. What do those numbers mean? I know I have heard them before. My mind races for answers, and nothing is conjured forth. I am left alone, with a silent dissatisfaction.

I look to the wooden floor, and see the sand from outside spilled in through the doorway. It is tracked in purposefully, carried by the boots of an participant who was unaware. I lift my own foot and place it next to the print, and am relieved to see that it is my size. This reaffirms my thought. I have been here before. I have walked in this cabin. This realization also draws forth a haunting question. I can hear my thoughts echoing, in the stillness of the cabin. Why can’t I remember more about this place?

I take a second step. Has it been seconds? Minutes? Hours? With no sense of time I have no basis for how long I have tarried in this doorway. The wooden floor creaks beneath my boot as my foot falls. The sound itself seems to drag me back to life. I take a deep breath in, as my attention turns once more to the table littered with papers. Something important waits there. I can feel it. It is pulling me, compelling just one more step closer. With grim interest I take a third step. Then a fourth. The groaning of the floor beneath me causes a cringe, but from what? What do I risk awakening? Am I not alone in this place?

Several steps more and I stand before the table. A wooden chair lay on the ground at my feet. By the angle, I guess that it was knocked over with intent. I shift my focus to the table. The papers on the table are filled with hand written notes, and odd drawings of different shapes. Triangles inside hexagons, nested inside octagons, inside of a circle. Strange writing marches around the outsides of these symbols. They do not appear to be from any language I have encountered, and do not offer a hint of recollection. Mindlessly, I reach down for the chair, and prop it up to a standing position. I grab one of the papers closest too me, and move to sit down.

Before I have sat down, I hear a loud clatter behind me. I leap from my current spot, back towards the door. Guarding myself against attack, I quickly shout a shaken, “What was that?!” and scan the room for my assassin. My question is met with the same foreboding silence, as I stand alone in the cabin. The record player does not spin. The wind does no blow. Just silence. I am about to give up my apprehension when I notice the chair on the floor, in the same space it previously occupied.

A shrill voice comes in waves, echoing off the cabin walls. It sounds distant, but somehow close. "I CAN'T DO THIS! IT'S ALWAYS THE SAME WITH YOU!"

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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 6 years

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The Cabin Part 1

I have been here before. The maroon sand beneath my feet calls back memories of this place. A place that has cheated time. I look to my left, and there again is the sun. I have watched it. I have waited. More than once for hours. It does not move. It cascades a pink and blue glow across the sky that illuminates the only object of importance here.

Ahead of me, the sand blasted cabin is waiting. The same walls I have traversed. The same room I have studied every inch of. I know this place, and yet with each return, the memory is hazy. The door lays, half covered in sand, mere feet from the entrance. The hinges are rusted, and show a wearing age that defies logic, because time does not move here. Just past the door, a crude array of furniture, with a torn arm chair, fireplace, and nightstand to the right. My left leads in to what might have once been recognized for a kitchen. A table that is covered in papers, scattered with purpose pulls my attention. The importance is lost on me, but I know that it is waiting. Past that a counter wraps around a corner, stained with browns and reds. A sink is set in the counter, filled with rust colored waters. Books float among the liquid, damaged far beyond repair. To the right, 3 more books are haphazardly strewn towards the sink.

Against the back wall, a hole has been patched, with what appears to be furniture. The rotten wood shows that it had seen quite a bit of use before it was used as a blockade. It appears to have once been a hallway. The glow from the never moving sun reveals this to lead back outside now.

I have taken one step in to this cabin, and already I can feel the flood of familiarity. As my hair stands on end, a scratching begins to echo in the quiet stillness. A gruff voice calls out from a record player on the nightstand. I mutter along, with the haunted voice, as I am reminded.

"Twenty-three... Sixteen... Eighty-four... Ninety... Sixty-five..."

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curiouserxandxcuriouser · 6 years

Text

Dream Volumes: 10/12

No one particular dream has stood our recently. Instead all of them have been of a curious nature. A feeling of helplessness, and hopeless that has never been in my dreams before. The idea that the problems encountered and faced are outside of my control. Even more so lately, I have felt drawn to memories of my past, but they seem more hazy than usual. For example, there is this memory of when I was a toddler, one of the very first memories I have in life. We were living in a trailer at the time, and one moring I woke up to my mother screaming. I waddled out to her holding up a hand and telling me not to go any further. She picked me up, and placed me on the couch, and I was able to see hundred, if not thousands, of maggots covering the floor. They were everywhere and there was no safe place to step. This drop in the bucket could be related, or meerly a frantic mind grasping at old straws. Frantic being the more likely conclusion. I say that because as of late, I have been waking up in the middle of the night. While it has not been every night, it seems to be frequent enough to have affected me. When I wake up, I see things, in the air, over the bed, or in the corners of the room. A few nights ago, I can not remember what night, I opened my eyes to see a black and silver churning form over my wife. It was in the air, and plain enough to see, yet it seemed ominous for only a second. My mind grasped for reason, and very quickly settled on it being an after image from my dream. I accepted that I was just painting on to the darkness something that I had just seen in my minds eye, and yet, I know that is not the case. I can not remember the dream at the time, nor can I recall the reason I would assume this figure of twisting tendrils and tubes would be a part of it. I am however 100% certain it was not any part of the dream. There have been others, but I can not recall them currently. Even as recent as last night, I am certain that the corner of the room was darker than it ever has been. I woke in the middle of the night, looked over, and it was almost a thick shadow. A shadow that rebelled against the light in the room. I even told myself out loud, that is something to check for in the morning. As morning approached, I looked again. The shadow remained despite the light produced for the rest of the room. A weary mind can create a terror in any darkness. You can even convince yourself things are moving, when nothing hides there. That said, I can feel something. I have felt sapped. More lethargic than usual. Even when I am awake and functioning, I still feel disjointed, as if watching my life unfold through someone elses eyes. Am I projecting again? Even as I type this, I can feel a weariness growing. A tiredness that has no place, as I still feel energetic. It is a curious matter to become aware of oneself. To see yourself, outside yourself, as if you were just a bystander watching someone else live your life. Though confusing, I am still not concerned on the matter. With a cleansing I can fix this, I simply want to see how far this slips before I do. Will a presence be revealed? Will I face something long forgotten? Or more importantly, will I finally glimpse past the viel, cracking open that door that so long ago I had shut? I wonder, if I glimpse, what horrifying memories will flood back?

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