Tales from days gone by.
Uploaded 2023-05-09; Updated 2023-06-05
It was a winter afternoon like any other. The sun barely broke through the matte grey clouds. As the wind howled, lifeless branches swayed and newly fallen snow kicked up with each gust.
Amidst the fresh white snow stretching as far as the eye can see, a wolf with still whiter fur stood on its hind legs, bearing against the base of a tree. Perched atop one of the lower branches was a solitary crow, its feather coat as pure as the fleece of its earthbound counterpart.
The wolf seemed to maintain a steady gaze up at the crow, which returned its gaze in kind. If not for the snow blowing past, it was as if time had stopped with the two creatures eyeing each other in perfect stillness.
The scene was rather trance-inducing, as if there was more to what laid before than the eye could see. And then, a whimper.
It was a loud whimper, yet a weak whimper. One blink, and the snow stained red as countless streaks cut through the wolf’s silvery white fur.
The crow now stood perched a little higher in the tree. Its talons were stained the very same red as that which coloured the scene.
The wolf seemed to cry out for help, not to see yet another day, but to find peace from its suffering.
I slid the rifle from my back and took aim, bracing sturdily against the stock. The shot rang out through the trees and the snow, with a reverberation uncharacteristic of that which I knew and had come to be familiar with. And the wolf was gone.
Looking around, not only had the wolf disappeared, so too did the red which moments earlier had been all that had coloured the scene. Up in the tree, not a single branch told of where the crow had stood with its blood soaked talons.
Peter called out from behind as his head poked over the snow covered hill he’d been trudging up. As he drew closer, the red sled behind him crested into view.
He asked about the commotion as I stood dumbfounded with the rifle still in my arms. All I could bring myself to say was, “I don’t know.”
To remember is to gaze into an irrelevant world… —H
To forget is to leave behind all the stories trapped on the other side… —J
Uploaded 2023-06-05
A young boy stood at attention, his surroundings a surreal blur as he maintained his form ever so still. He wore a stoic face betraying not a care in the world, yet it too would soon come to be a sign of his resignation.
A dark mixture of emotions swirled within like ink to water… a dark, turbulant cloud… growing, consuming… opaque to the soul.
“No more.”
Like a tin soldier, he wasn’t afforded the luxury of showing weakness.
“No more.”
A pleading to some higher being he no longer believed in.
“No…”
Like an ever mounting barrage, or perhaps like an arriving typhoon, the chaos around the boy roared louder and louder.
“… more.”
And then… silence.
There may come a time in a solder’s life when they are driven to the edge of madness, and clarity shines through the questions that had previously plagued them so relentlessly: “What is worth fighting for? What is worth dying for?”
And then he loses himself.
They say to learn from history so as to not repeat it… —J
But one can only carry so much grief within one’s soul… —H
Drafted 2023-06-27; Revised 2023-06-30; Uploaded 2023-07-01
Every half year or so, it comes time to clean the attic. Strange as it may be, I can’t remember the last time I saw the attic in a walkable state.
A window looks down onto the front yard of our little dwelling. Below, Peter was sitting on his bench, as he is often found to be, staring at the hills in the distance. Even if I had waved, I doubted I would get his attention from up here, especially with the morning sun reflecting off the window.
Looking around the attic now, I decided it would be worthwhile to first take to surveying all the boxes and junk that needed to be shuffled around. A strange feeling then consumed me, one of a childhood memory of playing a block organizing game. What’s strange is that it didn’t feel as though this childhood memory belonged to me.
As I began to look about the attic, there was something peculiar amongst all the stuff. It first drew my attention with its darker-than-dark appearance.
In the corner of the attic, carefully tucked away behind some boxes sat a little, black box. Once it came into my vision though, it seemed to so very naturally steal my gaze. What made the little box stand out was that its blackness felt artificial; not a single shadow in the attic came close to comparing against the black that enveloped this little thing.
There was something about the box that beckoned me, like a morbid curiosity. As I approached though, I noticed that this thing emitted a certain chilling feeling that only grew stronger the closer I came.
Then, I realized something odd about my thoughts. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t call this thing by what it is – that is, this little, black box – but I now felt that it was more accurate to call it “this thing”. It’s like I knew what “this thing” was, yet there were neither words nor thoughts to describe this thing. But some part of me knew, deep down, that it wasn’t just a little, black box.
Some part of me yelled out to another part of me not to touch this thing… this thing that seemed so small, so pitiful… and then, my hand made contact.
It felt like a carefully crafted piece of masonry, cold to the touch and quite dense as I picked it up to get a closer look. This little thing seemed to call out to me, almost as if it was trying to speak aloud and lift the dust that had settled about the attic.
Almost imperceptibly, something clicked. Was it a literal click within this thing? Was it a figurative click within me? In what felt like less than a second, the world around me faded to black.
Thoughts battered my head, most of them unrecognizable as my own. I was still holding onto this thing, this box that seemed to project its own thoughts onto me. I felt tears start to well up, yet I wasn’t sure why. It was like an overwhelming sadness washed over me without warning. Some part of me knew that I needed to let go of this thing… but some part of me felt a desperation to keep this thing within my firm grasp, as if the world would end if I let go.
There were voices I had never heard before. They gave the feeling of moments in time replaying. “Oh no, you can’t do that ----, ----- doesn’t want you there.” “It’s a done deal, ----.” “--- moi.”
There was a vision of the box tumbling through the air after being thrown. By whom, I couldn’t discern. Perhaps myself? Or I suppose the original owner of these thoughts? The box splashed into the lake far off the shore, and I watched as it sank deeper and deeper.
“This can’t be real,” I thought to myself. “Yes, this thought was definitely my own. No one could possibly throw a box that far. Nor could they then watch as the box sinks deeper and deeper.”
“… but that box and this box are the same. Of that fact, I am certain, yet I know not how.”
I found the voice of my thoughts to begin to distance itself from what it was describing. As though there were layers upon layers of words to shield me away from the material of the very thoughts I was having. Before long, the waves upon waves of thoughts, voices, and visions began to ease up, and it started to feel like I was at the bottom of an ocean. It was quiet, with voices so distant that it took effort to make out what was being said.
Then, a single voice. This voice, crystal clear to the backdrop of muffled others. “I gave up. I gave up so that I may be free of this. I gave in to save ----… but in the end, I lost all that I sought to protect.”
And then, another voice. This time, in hysterics: “They ------ -- -----! They ------ ---!” It seemed as if the content of this shred of a thought was all but gone.
After that, yet another voice. A calm voice.
“I’m tired of the fighting. I’m tired of the pain. I’m just so very tired.” There was something chilling about the voice. It was a young voice.
“I watched in dread and horror as I became a monster. I couldn’t take the third way out that I promised myself so.” If I attempted to picture an owner for this voice, I couldn’t help but picture a madman.
“I rejected myself. I threw away the me that became so as to free some small semblance of my former self, yet now, I can’t even discern whether I made the right decision.” It was a very young madman.
“An echo of some past me lives on in stories I tell myself, preserved like a fragment of china, shattered in time immemorial. But today, I know not which self is the real me.” I couldn’t help but feel a degree of sorrow for the poor thing. Except maybe not sorrow? Something coloured by sorrow. Grief? Or maybe mourning?
And then, a young girl’s voice: “I used to believe that I was whole, and in times of duress, I became multiple to protect the most fragile parts of my self.” My heart sank as chills raced down my back. Tears welled up again and spilt over as I started gasping for air.
“I now wonder if maybe, just maybe, I am but one piece of some greater whole.” It was my own voice. Maybe a little younger than how I sound now, but I couldn’t mistake it. The tone with which that voice deliberated sounded like she.. I.. was in the middle of a revelation.
An urge came over me to throw this thing, this foresaken box, as far as I can, as if making the very motion with my body would send it back to the bottom of the lake. As I wound up to throw this cursed, wretched box, another revelation began. Unsettled would be an understatement for my current state, as if I could possibly be ready to hear more, but this second revelation seemed to ease my senses, if only a little.
The voice was the same, though perhaps having slightly matured since the first revelation. “It seems that letting go of this box of secrets always takes me back to a state of calm. Perhaps, I am led to the delusion that all this was a dream. Or perhaps, the secrets bestowed by the box only last as long as I accept the box as a part of myself.”
Something about the temporary nature of these alarming revelations seemed to soothe my anxiety: “So if I wish to forget, if only for a while… it is but a choice away…”
And then, I let go.
It takes strength to see things for what they are. —R
It takes strength to see yet another dawn. —P