The Diary Of A Dead Man

 

The fat diary, sitting on his table. He could barely read the chaotic scribblings, the dusty pages, the cracked lines, and the damage to the cover. The inscribed detail, the thousands and thousands of words.

The man who had owned it was dead. Killed himself in a lonely apartment, near upper Manhattan. A single gunshot wound... Found with blood everywhere, staining the beautiful bedsheets...Buried in an unmarked grave...

One momentary glance and he had taken it, hid it underneath his thick raincoat, across the road, silently trudging...

It was a beautiful little book, with a strange allure to it... A fantastic grandness to it, with its fading gold... The words rushing through the pages... He flipped open the first page, saw the date, and stared at the title.

January 1st, 1999.

I know everything... Everything... Every day, the moment, the present, the strange past... I know every detail in every view... I can tell the number of flits the fly that lives in my lonely apartment makes... How much drips from the faucet... The number of cars passing through my apartment... The number of birds that perch suddenly onto the balcony... All the cracks and lines covering every single brick lining the walls...Or how the sun does not abandon the moon to darkness, how the ridges of heat continue to ripple, and how strange the world is truly... How unique and new every snowflake looks, and how I watch and learn from every step in the path, every unique little second, every small change...

I know everything that happens in the city when I watch with my telescope at the little people below, see the little glitter of city lights, and hear the familiar shouts from upstairs.

I know all...

I knew from when I was born, every moment outside, in the air, all so familiar, so strange... So beautiful...

As of today, this is a diary of dreams...The few that I can barely recount in my head... The ones that seem real, strange, all recent...

January 5th, 1999

The first strange dream happened today when I fell asleep on the train, as the familiar tunnels guided me to sleep. A beautiful, strange dream, terrifying... It was of lightning striking a building, crackling as the heat struck the gravel road. The building I remembered... The familiar concrete steps, the young pillars, the sewers below leading to a strange, dark corner... And a scream from within...

When I woke, the concrete detritus, the heavy waste, the people in the city, all weighing down upon me, the pressure of reality... The horrible fantastical, gone... And the fill of glittering lights upon every surface, and every ripple in each wave of water, music echoing through the mind, through the entirety of my memory... It was all very clear... Yet, so strange, so empty...Full of a never-ending repetition... Like a beautiful clock, with a pendulum... The pendulum swings between Light And Darkness. Continuing forever... Swinging... Back and forth...

After I headed home from work, a great sheet of lightning burst from the clouds, echoing down, down, down, and a great heat rippled through the air...

The next pages were ripped apart. Until new lined paper appeared, and new words spoke with new vigor.

February 1st, 2000

Another year, another great dream, but greater than the previous few, grander, more intricate, detailed, possibly the most beautiful images I have experienced in my life, but even stranger, more or less universal, clearer, vivid, intricacy between every passing image... Every passing memory strung together, weaved to form a massive chain of events.....

First, a great concrete building, exploding, then rioters, protesters swarming the place, bombs riding through the air, and soldiers shooting at people... And a red flag, tattered, wavering in the wind, someone interviewing a young woman... More and more of the future, more and more strange occurrences... A series of never-ending events... Of violence in every American city, and strange wars fought among human people... For something... Whether races, rights, religion, beliefs... There was a never-ending turmoil, never-ending pain...

I could estimate, based on memory, that this event was in 50 years... From all the details, from all the technology...

I surmised that I couldn't live that long...

March 3rd, 2002

A clock swings above my room now. An old grandfather clock, with an alarm that rings when it is midnight. The last time I dreamed of the future, I slept for three days, restless, my arms weakening against time, I became delirious, hallucinating, when I woke...Running to the faucet, drinking the great, great smooth water running down and down... Ate nearly everything I had...

It was two centuries, years, and years of information pulling down my mind... But yet my mind could remember every war, every single bloody fistfight, and conflict between two sides. The burnings cars, empty buildings, the forever wasteland that expanded forever and ever on all sides... The desert that drained the water from the sand, and the walls of iron building up from thousands of places, forming great metal masses... Steel rivets hammered, hot, boiling against the sun, and beautiful shimmers, heat rippling, rivers fading away, an infinite ocean revealing the raw bones of the once-great earth...The sand running down, down, down...

All was fading away...

There were only a few left...

Like specks of sand...

July 6th, 2005

I cannot dream...

I remember the thinly weaved web, the night swallowing the stars, and the earth collapsing against a strange infinity, a foreverness, called the Life, as it drank from the blood, as it ate the world, drank from the waters, ate the meat, enveloped the world. I could remember the deep rich folds within the skin, the beautiful, beautiful heavens, a child's dreams quickly torn to pieces, a man holding a heart, infinite memories, infinite knowledge, within the black eyes of Life... A being with no content, with only a purpose, to swallow the earth into the deep grasps of the Sun, of the red giant itself...

Beautiful... So beautiful...

December 15th, 2007

When the world is dry, there is only Life. There is only a leathery texture to the crust of the earth, when you stare at the void, there is a beautiful rigidity, the stars stay still, but you can see the infinite folds. My brain is merely a vessel for these folds, holding mere millions of these folds. These millions of beautiful folds... That echo through the world, brilliant, they are hidden everywhere...

One such fold is my dining room table, I notice it as I walk past, that occasionally it moves when I stare at it, that it shines to a strange light in the air, that it whispers words aloud, through the voice of the wind, unintelligible to most, but I remember the Life and its beautiful voice... How it speaks with melody, with an echo... The forms it holds... The beautiful, beautiful massive figure... The celestial, never-ending, the continuance...

The Life...

As they say, "Do not be silent. Raise your voice. Be a light in the dark"

Arrive in the spotlight with a great BANG!

It ended abruptly... And a splash of red, crushed and dry, seeped into the pages, the roughness, the never-ending stacks of drawings, images, the scrawled, horrible writing rattling about strange things...

In the end, it was merely the thoughts of a delusion...