This is a pretty pointless piece about the way I died...
There's no hidden meaning, no lesson learned and no purpose for anyone to go through with reading this but the curious humanly desire of reading a story of another pointless death, another anecdote to throw around at dinner since it seems that death has become the number one topic of conversation around most.
I lived in a land where I was called crazy and where I called everyone crazy.
Once upon a time I was bespectacled, and everyone thought I looked so very old in my spectacles and that they were always, dirty.
Well my dirty spectacles served for one purpose, and their secret lied in that purpose that all the crazy fools in my village did not see. It could see from a further place, like I was in a deep pit looking at the from there or like I was peeping through a cloud in the sky and seeing people as small as ants compared to the vast universe above me. The people in my village said my spectacles made me mentally inapt for living but when I took them off and replaced my vision with one like theirs, it was my turn to call them so.
They had a superpower that made everything boring. They saw everything exactly in its abstract color and at its exact calculated distance, that when they reached, looked or heard, their senses became nothing but computers operating on facts, automatic responses to their surroundings and in that automaticity they found safety in a common sense that everyone agreed to follow but me.
When I used to reach for anything in my village, I had to look at it first, however unreal my image seemed at first I tried and tried so hard to view it from every angle that in the end I might realize the truth in it, so that I would not over reach or have my hands falling short and idle into the air. The exploration was my fun, the reflection of an outside object into introspection. My dirty spectacles made the world beautiful to me, like I was looking through a translucent lake, the haziness of which made my mind twirl and twirl in an ineffable mixture of color, word and sound.
I am into the art of constructing sentences that no one comprehends, and people often looked at me with gabbing jaws and walked way.
I tried so hard to take off those spectacles and their visions condemned for their lunacy, I tried to see with the clarity of my own programmed human robotic eye. Sometimes I'd succeed to put on a show and to see reality as shallow as they do and some other times, I failed.
When I did succeed, I met friends.
When I did fail, I met myself.
And I lost the friends.
But a danger I did not calculate or perceive neither with my naked or my bespectacled eye was in the stars for me, a sickness that formed inside me like a single cancer cell, starting with one, spreading to another and finally possessing me whole. It crept undetected, even though their were signs.
The first sign was a cut which one of the lunatics did to my arm, it was very painful and it made me scream a lot but my incomprehensible sentences made it impossible for anyone to understand a word. When I was tired of screaming I slept, and with sleeping comes dreaming and so I dreamed. When I woke up happily jumping off my bed to the world, telling them that I've found the dream, it came to me, it visited me when I wasn't looking at all, they mistook it for a joke and it seems like it was a funny one indeed, but I was the only one not laughing, it only created another cut. Alas! I did not know how to undream a dream.
And so I tried to take off the spectacles again and found that my dream looked like a mirage without them, that this dream was the only thing that was clearer with my spectacles and so I knew they had to laugh, because to them, I am following an illusion.
There I was developing it, the sickness of listening and comparison.
In its core it was only a conflict that comes from the realism of an illusion, or the illusive nature of reality, or so it sounded to me and so I did believe. I realized that succeeding of ridding myself from the spectacles would mean that I would live my life faking happiness amidst their mad boredom, while failing and the stubbornness of holding on to them would mean that I will be called crazy all my life, that this censure, ridicule and conflict would last a lifetime.
I believed in a whole lot of different lives than they had lived, I believed in touching my cuts other than strapping a bandit on them because the pain felt more human than any of their meaningless chatter, I believed they were savages because of their scientific approach to themselves and the way they felt completely alright only devouring each other and consuming little ones until they turned them to savages as well. I believed their connection to colors was different than mine, and that they can not hear a sound and see pain like I do, I believed that the art of constructing sentences in their world was judged by facts and metric measurements of entertainment and not truth, and I believed that insanity to them was a disease and to me it was an identity I had to accept. I had to not only live with the pain of alienation, but love it.
One day, when I was walking in the streets that consumed me everyday, enjoying the decay, the wreckage I was becoming in every second that passes, taking everything in and turning it into a personal pain, I heard a sharp loud scream and I went to check it out.
There was a huge crowd that called out for freedom, so I stood and yelled it out with them, then there were some other people who devoured a number of those people in cold blood and then they left them and went home, wherever that home was. And I stood in the wreckage as those corpses disappeared and those who called for freedom walked on every other path. Later I found that those thin men and women were still not as insane as I am, they were merely passersby in my world of insanity and then they resumed being part of the crazy village, they were the crazy ones now and they were crazy only by the definition acceptable enough for the rest of the village.
Every once in a while, one of them would scream and then another would die, they'd scream for a while because they think death to be horrid, and I'd scream because I think life to be horrid, because their madness is temporary, because they like humdrum fucking just like everybody else.
And one night I decided to scream a different scream than theirs, I decided to say that there's another truth that no one cared enough for, there was another truth that can set them all free and it's called madness. So one of those savages stood and looked at me with so much scorn, the scrutiny rose like a mountain in the crowd and he called me a heretic, a total bitch, a mad witch that needs to worship the same gods they did.
I had faith in a god, and little did they know of him, he is a god that requires complete dedication to the truth, and I had not completely found my path to him but all I had was my faith and a strong desire for submission to the greatest power in the universe, little did they know my path was far from done, and they did not care, they were determined to punish me for failing to be a part of their village.
The chief of the savages was a big strong man with colorful tattoos all over, to my eyes behind the glasses, he was almost surreal, I called him Samson, while they had another name for him...
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