first of 2008

There is a flicker from the continuous lights, as minutes turn into hours which turn into days. And day after day after day after day after day my eyes snap open as the first trickles of light reach my eyelids. The water is just not hot enough; this room is just not hot enough; it is just not enough. My hands paint faces: of people, of stories that merge into my own skin, and I admire my work in a mirror. Today is the day. Today will break the reoccurring pattern of my existence.

The voice inside my head keeps me preoccupied as my hands write and I am here, but I am there. My mind explores every aspect of the consistency of my days. Since when does every sunrise look exactly the same? Thoughts interrupted by the echoing bell. An involuntary reaction.

I have followed the concept of long-lost souls that come to me at night. They seem to be the only things that can make me differentiate between my days. They call to me, but melt when the lights come alive. Since when does the sunrise murder the creations inside my mind? Thoughts cut short by the echoing bell. An involuntary reaction.

I live inside a simply patterned world. I shun inconsistency. I fear abnormality. I am the patterned stars, glorified in the sky. Oh, but please, if you could just come a little closer you could see that all the other stars are not just mere copies of me. I watch the back of plastic heads day in and day out, bobbing in agreement of every word spoken by The Higher Ones. Cyclical ideas stopped abruptly by the echoing bell. The bobbing heads involuntary reaction.

The World outside may actually appear to change, but it is carefully controlled by the perfectly timed bell. The trees shift from green to red to dead following the precise clock, ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing. The sun rises everyday. Perfectly. Consistently. Normally. The light is broken off at sunset by the echoing bell. Days are the involuntary reaction.

I’m spinning on my axis, always returning exactly where I have been. I have traveled these courses before, so I recall the outcomes. But doesn’t repetition make everything interesting? Doesn’t repetition make everything interesting? Doesn’t repetition make everything interesting? Saying “NO” will break the Mold. Cross the line. Fight the clones. Thoughts shoved to the side by the echoing bell. Involuntary “yes.”

My hands fight to stay afloat, lingering on this back and forth, back and forth, back and forth progression that doesn’t seem to be progressive. Let us slip underwater for a split-second: to feel what it is like to have no control over ourselves. My muscles relax and let the shifting of the water move me so that I am fighting the tide. My eyes are closed. I am breaking the mold. Shattering the clones. Tossing the array of bells into the bottom of the ocean.

An alarm clock screams.

My eyes snap open.

An involuntary reaction