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From The Diary of Christopher Michaelson
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From The Diary of Christopher Michaelson |
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fractal007 Senior Member
since 2000-06-01
Posts 1958 |
I would like to explore story writing through diary for a while. Perhaps you the reader will be a kind audience and lend me some constructive criticism of this forray into a land I've not explored yet? Christopher Michaelson is a character in another world. I've been working both on him and my other world for some time now. The term desire is used frequently here to signify what certain cultures in the world Michaelson occupies believe to be the component of the psyche that produces the world that one experiences. It should not be read too quickly as signifying what our regular english word means. I look over toward the bookshelf. It stands tall before me, a monolith of my own ambitions. My own hard work and my family's love built this for me. I listen as all grows quiet throughout my home. They are going to bed. They will dream of sweeter places and darker rooms than their own. I can't sleep, not before I allow myself that one taste. No, it's not myself I am satisfying. It's something deeper even than myself. We've lost that here in this modern world. Desire, I mean. That's the best word I can use to describe it to whoever's reading this. I guess the truth is, we've lost the real meaning of desire. Desire runs deeper than ourselves. It's the pure life that courses below our blood and behind the strings that pull our selves. It's the reason I see what I see and do what I do. It's the reason you're here; because of me you live and because of you I am. We are all linked by that one intangable thread of pure, unadulterated virgin desire. I allow it a taste of memories I had so many years ago. I indulge its demands for more of what so many have passed onto me because I have to. I have no choice in this matter. Desire - my desire - is too powerful for any force in the entire created universe to overcome. The primaeval human force is welling up within me and I know I'll sleep soon. I begin to breathe slowly and deliberately. I've learned to do this when the pushing comes, when the crushing feeling within my entire body sets in. I've learned to cope with it through so many painful years. My hands and feet melt away as anxiety ferociously rises like bubbles from the depths. My arms and legs fade and my body is lost in the cold blackness. In one last act of defiance I close my eyes so that I won't have to see what is about to happen to me. I know that if I leave them open I'll see the skin dropping from my body and the muscle wilting away, falling like refuse from my bed. I'll see the covers around me become a writhing mass devouring my body as it fades from my own awareness. Death and life will overcome me, recycling and devouring and killing and recycling through the centuries, across the trillions of fathoms, spanning the lost ages that nobody believes in anymore. I'll feel our lonely human predicament as no one does. A drop of water is the first thing I feel. It's not mine to feel. Another drop lands on me and I feel my eyelids reappear, my head, my neck, my body becomes. The ground presses on my feet and the world reassures me that it's okay to open my eyes. The transition is over. The ground below me is a gray mud. I bend down to touch it as though I were some space probe from a distant more civilized world, trying to understand what happened to create this place. I look up and see the dead landscape of giant steel hulks standing around me. Once these walked and once people talked. Before me there are footprints out of an enclosed area. I do what I must in this place, walking in where the footprints lead out. The gate of the old garden lies open, left behind by an irresponsible fool who refused to immitate his commander. The inside of the enclosure is barren, save for one cup lying on its side. I move closer and reach to pick it up. It's excruciatingly hot and it burns my fingers as I recoil. I blink and I find myself lying in my bed again, flat on my back. I can see a shadow of someone standing over my bed. The person's large head approaches my face and I can feel a hand gently stroking my forehead. It's okay, son. You'll be ready for that when you're older. Will you fix my hand? Will I be scarred by that cup forever. No answer. I close my eyes. The last of my house is asleep. 2+2=5 for sufficiently large values of 2 |
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| © Copyright 2004 fractal007 - All Rights Reserved | |||
Jeffrey Carter
since 2000-04-08
Posts 2367State of constant confusion! |
So far this is great! Please tell me you will continue this? |
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Copperbell Senior Member
since 2003-11-08
Posts 956 |
I like your idea...I'm wanting to understand more, further, what your character is experiencing. The idea about him being somewhere else whilst he dreams is intriguing, lots of potential for adventure |
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fractal007 Senior Member
since 2000-06-01
Posts 1958 |
I want to continue this, yes. I am glad that this piece has aroused some curiosity. Hopefully I am back to my old habbit of writing dreamy dark pieces again. I enjoy doing those the most. 2+2=5 for sufficiently large values of 2 |
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