About Me

I find it hard to describe myself using more than a few words, a few drops of ink spilled on the page that waste little and leave enough blank space for more important endeavors.  I guess this tells you I’m poetic, because we’re only one paragraph in and I’ve already personified myself.

I call myself ink, yet I’m more like paper: faceless, malleable, and ruined by mistakes.  My creases will never smooth, and tape will only close the millions of tiny rips scattered along my edges.  The fibers of my skin will never reconnect entirely.

Thank goodness you have the power to paint me, to bury those flaws under any color you please.  I prefer blue and purple, myself, but I cannot let you know that.  What if your favorite color is green?  I guess this means I’m insecure, as well.  I’m so sorry.

I also enjoy painting and drawing.  I look for excuses to stick my brushes in ink.  I sometimes paint upon myself, but only when you can’t see.  I wouldn’t want you to think I’m improper or indecent.  I know how indecent I can be, which I why I only paint myself behind closed doors.  I don’t want to show myself as anything less than your favorite color.

I stick to my word.  I never break a promise, and I hardly ever lie.  I stick to my word because you write it, along with my promises.  It would be a lie to say I don’t have trouble remaining smooth and white after you have taken your pen to me.  Sometimes, you press down too hard and it hurts.

I should stop personifying, now.  I can tell you find this senseless creativity obnoxious, and would rather I get to the point:

I live to please others.  I used to do things to please myself, and I became a monster.  Now, I am honest, punctual, and as perfect as I can be.  I believe that the best way to correct oneself is through punishment, meted by a set of strict guidelines.

I follow my guidelines to a T.

I think I like bizarre things.  I am somehow drawn to the macabre and the surreal, the things that keep most children awake at night.  The creatures in my head come out in my drawings, and in the way I dance.  Feel free to question these interests, for they could be my narcissism begging for attention.

I think I’m politically liberal, because my thoughts run more closely to that platform when I am left to think alone.  Maybe propaganda has taken over my brain.

I think I have a sense of wit that some would find humorous, but when I try to tell a joke, blank stares and quizzical expressions meet me.  I cannot laugh at the jokes of others – insulting others and mimicking bodily functions is not funny, at least not to me.

Excess Calories disturb me, in both diet and in word.  I don’t think I enjoy sugar-coated tales.  If anything, I don’t like stories that make people feel better about themselves for no reason.  I apply the same philosophy to myself, for I, too, am human:

  • Those people are not teasing me out of jealousy. They truly hate me.
  • My own incapacity caused me not to get the job.  The employer saw right through my façade.
  • Yes, others do care if my thighs touch, if I have stretch marks, and if my breasts are too large. It’s evolution.  It’s science.  I am disgusting.
  • It’s no secret people watch me when I eat. I know they think I shouldn’t eat so much: it will ruin me.

I wish I could say more, but I don’t know what else to write.  I am too preoccupied with all I have wasted: Your time, your space, your ink.

 

 

 

La rhume

I always look forward to October 16th.  It’s almost always a beautiful day, the sun beaming weakly on the cool ground.  It is that time of year where the earth has released itself to winter, the atmosphere still clinging desperately to the warmer climate of early autumn.  Confusion erupts, a clash between what was and what will be.

It is in this confusion I make my appearance.  I am known to man by several names, depending on where you go.  In France, I am la rhume.  In Spain, el resfriado.  In Japan, 鼻風邪.  Either way, I am the same.  In all languages, I am hated.

My search is always ruthless.  Of course, I am only given twenty-four hours to leave my annual mark on mankind.  I search for weakness, and there I strike.  With a small twist of my hand, I wring the life from my victim’s pink lungs, filling them with the soggy gel of a half-frozen sewer.  I then take my hands to his expansive back and narrow shoulders, crushing his bones and rendering his muscles incapable.  He shouts for mercy as I rip open his straining trachea and steal for myself what voice he can muster.

When I finish, it is only his ears and his nose that are emanating his hot-blooded warmth.  I lean close to his face, inhaling the putrid smell of my damage, and I tell him: “three days.”  That is all the time he has to find his missing parts, until my work takes him over for good.

The first day, I know he will be entirely disabled.  Most humans are, anyway.  They hide themselves from their comrades, trying to keep them safe from me.  Little do these people know I have brothers, who have no need for assistance when it comes to making their attacks.  They come out in the summer, the winter, and the spring; they do nearly the same thing as me.  Our variations are often so subtle, they go undetected.

On day two, he will have cleaned the liquids from his lungs enough to stand.  Humans are about sixty-five percent water.  Any more, and they might drown.  He walks, my victim, gathering his shattered bones and limp muscle to reconstruct himself from the waist up.  His legs wobble.  He is a fawn in stag’s costume: his body, tall and powerful, is betrayed by the shadowed stare of his lifeless eyes.

By day three, he is able to wander about.  Perhaps not run, perhaps not climb, but he can wander.  His silence is disturbing.  For three days now, he has said not a word.  His voice is still missing; he cannot make contact with any who might serve as help.  His efforts are strained, he is losing hope.  Perhaps I will earn my victory?  From the pocket of his worn jeans, there is a buzzing.

Hello?

Damn, foiled once more.

 

The People Underground

Under the thinnest layer of the earth, you find a house in which time stands still.  It is far enough away from society to run of its own accord, but close enough to the surface to be able to taste, selectively, a morsel of what goods the environment has to offer.

When we say time “stands still,” we want you to know the house is not frozen in time, at least, not in the traditional sense.  The inhabitants, three females and a male, all function and age like their companions above the rocky periphery.  They were born like us, having gushed out of a bloody womb and into the firm grasp of the man with scissors; and they will die as we will die, shriveled like prunes and drowning in the fluid that no longer accepts a breath as life.

Yet, they can’t predict it.  They have to feel it for themselves.  There is no way they can mark the moon, or the sun, if that’s what we want to measure, as it travels around the celestial rock in which they find themselves interred.  They stay awake until they get tired, then sleep until they feel awake.  What do they do, in between?

We have determined they walk, quietly, through the halls of their houses in single-file lines.  Up and down, back and forth, with backs as straight as the poles whose wild roots sprawl uncontrolled around the cemented dwelling.  They appear to communicate through their faces which, serene so as to demonstrate a disconnection to modern stressors, are marked little and familiar with nuance.  Small gestures, some of which may not be achieved by our mainstream kind, can be depicted as insults, humor, or affection.

We notice they appear to be concerned with a certain something, which is either unseen to us or that matters not in our civilization.  Alone, they must create their own stressors.

The group has also procured a television, whose wires are just long enough to pull from the sky a colored speck in a sea of black and white static.  They stand as they watch, guessing and guessing as to where the little shred of rainbow might appear.  The television is a game to them, and their faces are never angry when scanning the glass dome for some sign of saturation.  If one spots it; they jump, a single hop for joy.  There is no winner, just the victor of the moment.

By all scientific standards, these creatures are human beings.  It should come as no surprise that they eat, although their diet diverges from the quotidian fare we consume from our soil.  Having dominated the land, we know that the best nourishment has been pushed from the bowels of the soot below our feet.  We have mastered its cultivation, right down to keeping it safe from the cold.  Our timeless friends are fond of the opposite.

Death, it seems, is to them as important as to us is life.  They, with iron shovels, scavenge about the sous-terrain, collecting in their hands the calcified shards of crackled bone that have persisted long since the dissolution of flesh.  How do these beings consume them?  We are not entirely certain.  The act, done in private, recalls the suicides of the ancient Greeks.  We are forbidden from viewing the preparation of this nourishment and, for the present time, we believe it is for the best.