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Adventure Speculative Fiction

This is an era of great change. It is always an era of great change. Time is a cycle and reincarnation is a true gift few remember and when they do it makes them throw up. I miss so much and so many which is strange really because this is the point where I forget once more. My life, my mind in many bodies. So many pairs of hands. God, the things hands can do. You most likely want a lesson from a dying soul. You probably want to know all the things hands can do. Beautiful and terrible things. Like I said that one time a terrible beauty is born.

Time they tell me is a circle. Something that cycles through life highlighting key points to repeat later over and over.

A constant smooth continuous from which life bursts flourishing. I know this so obviously and yet I feel so full of sharp edges and rusted words. Time feels like the rain falling then rising, or carbon molecules diverging through soil then air then mussel and tissue which twist into hands. God the things hands can do. The wheels go round and round. I was there when the girl looked up into the trees and I was gone by the time she woke up. In her bed, safe, warm and unsatisfied.

Time goes on and I realise I am just idea thought perhaps by someone else. Another lifetime vanishes. I can love them all I want. I’ve given them names and built buildings worshiped and dedicated lives to them. Thinkers don’t owe anyone shit. I die again and again. I thought nothing could hurt me exactly but I forgot about death and her terrible grip. She scooped me up from a hospital bed, the battlefield or downed in a puddle or poisoned from Kool aid. Like a bloodied kitten. Why not embrace the warmth. Again and Again. I was born.

Every good story has a moral, a teaching we can apply to our lives. I don’t usually tell stories but today I will. Things start they blur and change entirely and then they end. It's like a game of sports really, and in every team each player likes to think they are the most important.

It is extraordinarily creepy to watch children.

‘I'm thinking of a number between 6 and 8 and you have to guess which one’ 

‘Seven?’ 

‘NO, you lost!’

 but you can’t exactly help it when you’re a tree. 

‘You’re being an idiot, There are no other numbers!’

‘I made it up, its flower’

‘That's stupid’

'Your stupid!'

The children talked and yelled and bickered some more the way siblings do. Then they got called in for dinner and then the sunset. I've watched them grow but not with eyes millions of cells and chemicals and tiny little messes of things that end up twisting and into grand sun stretching things. 

The thing they forget to mention about the whole death life reincarnation heehaw. Is that cycles get lazy and they tend to reuse material. Or maybe that materials are some kind of universal polyester.

Also you can’t help but love the people you love. Again and again. Different faces different names but I swear they are the only constant. They make it possible. If there was a tapestry of my life each stitch would be a different type of beautiful I find knotted in the minds of all the hopeless bodies. Don't we all want to live every life isn’t that why we invented stories in the first place. I suppose you want mine to print onto pages and sell to those wanting sustainable meaning.

It's too bad I can’t tell it. I can’t limit it to words that a disservice of the mess I feel. I know I'm being dramatic but so is everyone ok?

 I do not despise death she is just oblivion. I despise her cruelty at what she has done to those she leaves behind. It's all ok when it you she takes I assure you. I've felt life drain from me in countless ways its all horrible and no matter how many times I actually do die it is just forcibly leaving.

I want to kill death, life, all of it. Yet she is just a metaphor in my mind. She is my idea. Sometimes I think I might be a flaw in some system or perhaps I am the entire system. Maybe the higher beings I created were myths sparked by me.

It hurts each time I remember all that came before me and the legacy of who I am. Each life all with millions of memories, all the years live lived and all the people I've loved and hated and killed. Once I remembered during some competitive Olympic diving which didn't end very well. Another time I was in my HSC and I threw up on my paper and fainted. Once I was two years old and my family thought I was possessed. The feelings you value and feel don't lessen, there's just more of it. A certain perspective is born though. One of realising just how small we are. Like staring up into the stars, and having the most boring and universal crisis about how existentially small we are amongst the universe. Meaning tends to drains through the tightest of palms when inevitability bakes in. We like to believe in something bigger to feel a part of something grand. Smallness is associated with insignificance and insignificance is a greater pain than punching. At least with punching you mean something to someone. That's how it feels anyway.

Now I lay on the soil. Time stretches forward up limitlessly and back. I wait until my bones grow weeds and my skulls hollow and then fill with fungi. Ahead and behind me are limitless possibilities of universe forces and time. Of specific choices that cause timelines to split. Likes That's the one thing I know, time. Hopefully I can just rest. Forget. Drive into the eternal space of being asleep and not dreaming. Like being knocked out before an operation. I want to not be just for a minute. I am the tree and I am the children underneath it and I am the grass underneath them and the universe is mine for the taking except taking is what death does. I’ve decided all I want is to live. To feel what I feel each and every feeling forever if that's what it takes. I suppose I don’t get a choice in the matter but I can choose how I react to it all.

So I wake each day. Each life and I start it out screaming and I’ll end it all dying until there is no more life for me to cycle through. Then maybe that's something and hopefully I’ll be nothing. I'm pretty limitless after all. I am a cycle. Highlighting key points to repeat. Again and again. Maybe forever but we do not know what that means because there is always an end. There is an end to this writing but not an end to me- at least so far. So goodbye I hope you find what it is you need to find in your own one precious life.

September 12, 2021 00:30

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