Post-Jordanism: noun- The artistic (cultural?) movement which began in late 2011. Works within this deal with themes of existential crisis, identity crisis, posttraumatic stress disorder, the state of being broken, intrusive thoughts of (non)existent(?) memory, the morbid preoccupation with suicide, grief, uncontrollable emotion, and darkness as a simple abstract concept. ex. 1: "Kill me."

Monday, January 16, 2012

"Blind Man's Soliloquy"

I actually did my homework for once. Luckily, my homework these days is "Write us a short story; it can be about whatever you want." Though I wound up writing about one of the pre-made prompts we were given, just because it interested me. The prompt was to write about an old and broken-down building or section of town from any perspective we wanted.

I walk alone down the silent street, caring not for the smells of the city around me. I care only for the sound: silence can be my only friend when it pleases me. Whereas other people may ask for crowded company and cries of complaint, I beg for a bushel of brisk brushes with the Queen of Emptiness. Her speech fills me with a joy I've not felt since my departure from the Middle-East a number of years ago. Here on the silent street, my only company is my only shadow, he who has remained by my side as the most faithful companion I could ever have.
My father has unforgiven me, my mother forsaken me. The land of confusion and hurt faced my younger self for too many a year, but the new dawn awaited my face with a faculty of fear. War took its toll, battle after battle of bottled-up memories followed. I received, in the post, a stressed piece of trauma, and it took a large bite out of my best friend. My shadow has never been the same. Darkness plagued my eyesight much with the ticking away of bullets free, but does new life follow old death?
I gained freedom from the bloodstained Hell, only to find myself in the Hell-stained blood of my frail mind. Day after day, seeing shadows in the light of the night, hearing voices from miles away. I know they are fake, yet sometimes I purposefully pursue them. Sometimes I want to die. Sometimes I pray for the silk of life's sorrow to wrap around my throat, times other I beg for the eldritch easel of the end of an endless eternity to encapsulate myself. All I ask is an answer to an above argument: Does new life follow old death? If I die tomorrow, will I be alright? With the deterioration of my mental state, can there be hope for a future?
With my remaining vision, I spot a tinsel remain: the memoirs of a parade once forgotten. This street truly is decrepit, but there at least lie the lore of an old life. Surely, if new death can follow old life, there must be a possibility of a new life to this armored-bombshell lifestyle. I turn and head back for the newer sections of town. I have a long road ahead of me, but at least there are no cars; silence awaits me with a smile.

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