Jumping\Running

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Baley
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Jumping\Running

Post by Baley » Sat May 27, 2006 12:08 am

Jumping\Running






Friday Morning 10 AM. I wake up. Scout for clothes. Find some in the laundry basket. Smell of perspiration. Wash my face. Wash my teeth. Wash the dirt away. I'm sweating. It's hot. Unusually so for this time of year. Doesn't matter. I need to get to school. I'm late. 20 minutes late. Sweating like a pig. I imagine her face. She doesn't matter. I imagine her face, again and again as I cook a passable breakfast. Eggs. Boiled. Don't really like eggs. Don't really like breakfast. I dress myself. I comb my hair and then purposely whirl it in a vaguely energetic fashion. It's all gone to waste. I smile. I start running around the small middle-class flat. I get my knapsack. Throw it on my back. I rush out of the apartment. Out the hallway. Down the stairs. Down the stairs. Four floors. 40 minutes late. There's this great passion about running, concentrating on the running itself. When I was a young boy I ran like a horse, in all directions. I ran and ran. No one could stop me. Cars trembled. Roads sobbed. I was there. Running. I get tired now. The heat gets to me. I can smell its effects. Everywhere. "It's killing us all." I thought. "It's all useless."

I imagine her face. Her happy face. She's why I'm running. Why I'm not giving up. Why I'm still clinging to hope. Hope, so pointlessly cute and inarticulate. I can feel the heat closing in. I need to move. Faster. Faster. Through the empty streets. Through the poverty-stricken alleyways. Passing dogs, children, grandparents, hollering for money, begging for food, tears in their eyes and bibles in their hands. Faster. Faster. Down old roads. Alongside other travellers. I'm a sick man. I can feel the sickness. I can feel the hate building up inside. I imagine her face. She's beautiful. Faster. Faster. I punch and kick my way through.

There's this old man. He's blind. I salute him. My father worked for him before it all went sour. He's a proud man. Vain. Can't accept his fate. He tells me about business deals and investments. "The Market's doing well." He says. 'That's good." I say. He nods. I nod. He smiles. He pats me on the back. He whispers something. I push him away. Far far away. He smiles at me. His smile is just as vain. He's not really blind. That's what he whispered. He's faking it. "For the cash." He says. "That's disgusting." I say. "You're a sick old *beep*." I turn my back. He grabs me. Punches me in the gut, he's got a good right arm. "Please." He says. "Don't you have some change?" He's incapacitated me. Can't move. I give him money. Everything he wants. I just want out. I'm sick. I'm a sick sick man. I need help.

She's got the most beautiful smile in the whole world. I'm lying in a pool of heat. It's all around me. I'm trapped. But she's with me. I hear her voice inside my head. "Everything's fine." She says. "I'm here. I love you." I don't believe her. I need proof. Rational realizations and conceptualizations. I don't trust voices in my head. I feel like jumping up and down. I need some reassuring. The voice keeps spreading its lies. "I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you." It's twisting me. I feel like running. Away from the voice. Away from the beggars. Away from the heat.

I see a tall circular building. Built out of glass, modern, brand-new. I fake a smile. It's not for me. Just another building. Just another prison. Glass.

I see a woman. She's got gorgeous juicy tits. I feel nothing. I analyse her. Closer. Closer. I move. I touch her cheeks, gently, I look into her eyes. Nothing. "Excuse me." I say. Turn my back and run away.

There's this building I've always liked. It's fairly old, a wreck from another time. I look at my legs. I'm trembling. The voice is silent. 60 minutes late. The day's ruined. The voice is silent. "Why so quiet?" I ask myself. I close my eyes. I touch the building. Hippie joint. Hasn't been used in decades. No one lives there anymore. A home without a soul. I enter the building.

The voice is silent.

"I'm prepared." I say out loud. "I'm ready!" I yell. I'm not a man of many words. Ever since I can remember, years, decades I've had this feeling, with me. It's always been part of me. I want to free myself of the body, of the material world, of its fluids and moods. All I have to do is jump. Simple.

"I love you." She says. Another voice. Different, more humane. It's her voice, I know it. Her beautiful face. The girl with the beautiful face. I'm panicking. I don't want her to see me this way. On top of this building. 60 metres up. "Leave!" I shout. "Leave!"

She's gone.

I'm all alone. The voice, the heat, the beggars. They're all dead. It's just me and the building. I kiss the ground. Move closer to the edge. Embrace the inevitable. Shake my hands in the air as a last act of rebellion. Close my eyes. Shout some monosyllabic garbage. Doesn't matter. I imagine her face. Her beautiful happy face. I jump. Elation. I fall. I smile. Not the end. Never the end. Call it a feeling.







---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pretty personal, I think. Any opinions\criticism?

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Gorth
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Post by Gorth » Sun May 28, 2006 12:30 pm

I would do a weeks worth of charity work to be able to open up your skull and check what is *really* happening in there :lol:


I guess there are two approaches to this written piece:

One can look at it in a slightly technical manner, admiring it's fast pace and frequent use of punctuation marks to create the sense of breathlesness and urgency, wondering about what the heat symbolises, the source of the selfdestructive urges etc.

Or one can wonder if it is related to your posts in this thread: http://forums.obsidianent.com/index.php?showtopic=42043 and wonder if there is a romanian boy somewhere whose life experiences has made him grow old before time and has assumed a rather cynic view on life and questions it's purpose, using writing as a mean of expressing those views...

You tell me which :)
A dyslexic walks into a bra...

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Baley
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Post by Baley » Sun May 28, 2006 3:06 pm

Well.

Firstly, my narrators are hardly perfect representations of my own psyche. Saner or more insane. I don't know. Not for me to judge. Just writing what comes to me.

You're still residing in Denmark at the moment, right? Well the heat here is really bothersome. 40 degrees Celsius. Horrible. I was wearing my jacket on Friday. Barely made it to school. It does things to your mind, I think. That's my theory anyway. And that's exactly what's happening to the narrator. He's slowly losing it. Blame it on the heat, society, past flings. Whatever. I doubt he'd blame anyone. His mind is well beyond that stage.

The girl's the key. The woman is always the key. As for his inherent need to jump off a building. That's all me, baby.

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Joseph
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Post by Joseph » Sun May 28, 2006 4:07 pm

Well, don't go jumping off any buildings. We have plans for you. We intend to make you our Eastern European Liason when we take over the world.

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Baley
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Post by Baley » Sun May 28, 2006 4:40 pm

Ah. You just want me to send all them feisty sex-crazed eurochicks your way. To completely and utterly depopulate the East of its last bastions of borderline decent taste. Admit it, Josan. You're in it for the sex.

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Joseph
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Post by Joseph » Sun May 28, 2006 5:12 pm

Actually, sex is the last thing I'm interested in.

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Baley
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Post by Baley » Sun May 28, 2006 5:33 pm

If ever there was a witty muscle inside my worthless body it has now long delved into obscurity. I'm sorry.

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