Individual and Society Creative

Individual and Society Creative

“Let’s get out of here.” My mind screams at me. My rear stays frozen on the chair of murdered tree, as it has done for what seems like an eternity. As the clock strikes two ante meridiem I take a look around my room as though an old friend.

I must say: I love the smell of dead trees in the morning.

It gives me a sense of self-gratification just to have the opportunity to witness my demonic timber floors highlighting the wooden bedframe, pale like malnourished faeces. Yet I feel the cry of the dead emanating the most from the desk. Not in the desk itself, but in the legal documents built on it like paper skyscrapers.

In this paper city, so far I have read a single building block. But there is hope. The sun doesn’t rise for a couple hours. Society doesn’t start for a couple hours.

My eyes are open, spectating on the foreign language. Yet my mind hangs from the branches of a mother-tree overlooking its children, bewildered by the ability for the world to have so much green. It never takes long for me to realise the wanderings of my mind. I look up to the poster hanging on the greying wall, held by a single blutack: “Befriend coffee today. Obtain money tomorrow.”

This forces my mind to let go of the mother tree, ready again to embrace the paper skyscraper.

If you ask why I do this to myself, I would say that I have a dream. I dream for a beachside mansion to live in with my miss universe wife, and every car you can imagine, littering my garage. This dream requires money. If I sleep, think, live and breathe like a normal person, I will not get that money. To get money, I must smother myself to the point where my existence is solely based on law, only compromised by the unconquerable distraction to eat and shit. That’s the plan anyway.  

Harvey’s intense navy blue eyes are getting gloomier with the passing day. I’m not sure though, maybe it was just the skies, sad from the absence of the Sun’s radiating warmth, reflected in his eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sees the same development in my eyes. Sitting on the edge of a cliff, we were barely able to see the waves far below us crashing against a barrier of rocks. We are waiting for the Sun to peep its head over the glum horizon. In our bags we carry study material, just in case. Just in case we feel like studying. In our hands we hold a cake, sprinkled with the love and care of fairies wanting us to join them in otherworldly experiences.

    “Harvey, don’t tell me what’s in this brownie.”

Harvey nods and we digest the food to fill the emptiness in our soul. When we experimented with human consciousness in the past, Harvey and I ceased to be the meaningless souls in the futile logic of the Universe anymore. It is that feeling that I desire now but all I receive is fear: Fear of those lurking in the shadows, ready to stab me in the back and take my place; however, the greatest fear that life will continue as though it was untouched by my existence.

Looking around me I did see a man lurking in the shadows. He doesn’t have the right to replace me. The closer I approach him the more I want him dead. He was an Indian man in loose white clothing his long wavy hair becoming black snakes snapping at me as he sits on his mossy rock platform. The Sun began to illuminate the sky with a meditative orange and like a diamond bullet shot through the temples of my skull, I realised who I was looking at. The Indian man was a Buddha. His gaze wasn’t fixed on anything in particular, but the ocean.  His white robes reflected a radiant orange. At some times I see him as a Buddha. At other times his body becomes a pure-white flower growing against all odds in a dark and moss-ridden surrounding. The black snakes on his head are gone and replaced with an everlasting waterfall of crystalline clear black water flowing from his mind to the surface, hydrating the air in an aura of enlightenment. I watch him as his robes turn a lighter and lighter shade of orange. The sun must be in the above the horizon by now. Before I know it I am trying to reach his waterfall. Touching the waterfall with my finger, its clarity becomes clouded. As I remove my finger, the clarity comes back in the waterfall. The Buddha acknowledges my presence, turning his body to me. His face is a white flower. If I had a mirror I might see myself a swamp creature. A petal is contorting rather elegantly on the white flower facing me. He is speaking to me. I can hear his words resonate. I am so caught up in the beauty of one sentence that I am deaf to his next sentence. What was he saying?

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