Akira's Blob
Sparks flew, we caressed and there we were, sitting on the street, alone again, together, but completely, invariably alone. There went our possessions, there went our friends, over the bypass, past the hills, too far for us to reach. We were alone, embracing ourselves and the solitude like pigeons on rooftops, so completely and incomprehensibly lonely, squawking for food and shelter and God only knows what.
We had each other for a fleeting moment, until we spliced and the decay of loneliness again set in. We turned into one whole thing, a glob of pointlessness desperate to find a reason for itself. And so it multiplied, no matter how many relationships we formed, no matter how many people we met, we were a decaying, perpetually unwinding ball of twine. We looked for others, and once we sucked in the rest, once the black hole sucked in all the people, the objects, and all the light, we were still an insignificantly small speck in space, in complete solitude.
So we ran. Away from something, to something, we weren’t sure. We fled from solitude, rushed to find the kind of entertainment only company can provide, driving on and on in a mindless way. Temporary solutions, temporary connections, temporary associations. The voyage, the journey, was our company. Our goal was running, and we were under the misinformed assumption that our goal was something definite, as though running were merely a means to an end.
Our road was relationships, our road was friendships, sex, late night talks and incredulous morning yawns. We were on a directionless, avenue-less journey, one-way, forever turning left. We came full circle, again and again and again, and we never stopped. We never stopped because we knew stopping meant forfeiting, succumbing to the will of nature -- to have us die alone, with hardly a funeral marking the failed Zippo lighter we placed a $100 bet on that was our aggregate life. We never gave up.
And because we thought we were running a victory lap round the fools that were secure in their lonely homes and tired families, we ended our voyage not of our own will. The voyage ended for us, the spark of life we had once ignited blew out just like that Zippo, but instead of betting 100 bucks, we bet our lives. We risked our necks, and our necks snapped. We wallowed in our torture chambers, we jumped in our cars, connected the fatal tubes from exhaust to within, windows closed and all, and we sat and drove while death crept in.
Numb, we drove and drove, and we thought we were getting somewhere. Little did we know that we were on a road that led nowhere, and even if it had, the carbon monoxide reached us long before we had a chance to catch a glimpse. And so our voyage, our goal and destination, was over before we had a chance to place any bets. Our necks snapped, and we were gone, off the face of the planet, in a tiny car, smoggy and confused, a speck the size of the dotted lines on our roads, and moving just as fast, with only corpses inside, just driving and driving and driving.
And they pulled us out of the wreckage, all of us, the entirety of the world pulled out from the tiny, vapor riddled speck on its surface, but by then it was too late. We were gone, we’d destroyed ourselves, we’d destroyed our surroundings and our hearts and our lives, everything that was dear to us, and we’d ended up nowhere. After so many years of driving, we were the ones who needed to be saved. And always, always, our rescue was too little, too late.
We had each other for a fleeting moment, until we spliced and the decay of loneliness again set in. We turned into one whole thing, a glob of pointlessness desperate to find a reason for itself. And so it multiplied, no matter how many relationships we formed, no matter how many people we met, we were a decaying, perpetually unwinding ball of twine. We looked for others, and once we sucked in the rest, once the black hole sucked in all the people, the objects, and all the light, we were still an insignificantly small speck in space, in complete solitude.
So we ran. Away from something, to something, we weren’t sure. We fled from solitude, rushed to find the kind of entertainment only company can provide, driving on and on in a mindless way. Temporary solutions, temporary connections, temporary associations. The voyage, the journey, was our company. Our goal was running, and we were under the misinformed assumption that our goal was something definite, as though running were merely a means to an end.
Our road was relationships, our road was friendships, sex, late night talks and incredulous morning yawns. We were on a directionless, avenue-less journey, one-way, forever turning left. We came full circle, again and again and again, and we never stopped. We never stopped because we knew stopping meant forfeiting, succumbing to the will of nature -- to have us die alone, with hardly a funeral marking the failed Zippo lighter we placed a $100 bet on that was our aggregate life. We never gave up.
And because we thought we were running a victory lap round the fools that were secure in their lonely homes and tired families, we ended our voyage not of our own will. The voyage ended for us, the spark of life we had once ignited blew out just like that Zippo, but instead of betting 100 bucks, we bet our lives. We risked our necks, and our necks snapped. We wallowed in our torture chambers, we jumped in our cars, connected the fatal tubes from exhaust to within, windows closed and all, and we sat and drove while death crept in.
Numb, we drove and drove, and we thought we were getting somewhere. Little did we know that we were on a road that led nowhere, and even if it had, the carbon monoxide reached us long before we had a chance to catch a glimpse. And so our voyage, our goal and destination, was over before we had a chance to place any bets. Our necks snapped, and we were gone, off the face of the planet, in a tiny car, smoggy and confused, a speck the size of the dotted lines on our roads, and moving just as fast, with only corpses inside, just driving and driving and driving.
And they pulled us out of the wreckage, all of us, the entirety of the world pulled out from the tiny, vapor riddled speck on its surface, but by then it was too late. We were gone, we’d destroyed ourselves, we’d destroyed our surroundings and our hearts and our lives, everything that was dear to us, and we’d ended up nowhere. After so many years of driving, we were the ones who needed to be saved. And always, always, our rescue was too little, too late.
posted by Anton at 9:08 AM
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