The Answers in 1,539 words or less…
If I shed tears the way the skies loose rain, am I a thunderstorm? Roaring thunderously, barring teeth like the lightning that illuminates the black velvet carpet above my head, I am squall. It is all in a name. Each night that passes, is just a gust of the wind. Every child that splashes 'round shallow puddles is no more than the neurons sparking in the depths of my mind. I open these eyes toward the heavens. Stung by droplets, as they hurtle towards this earth. Miniature water bullets. Killing me oh soo very softly. Caressing me just the same. As each prismatic drop contacts my flesh, conceal the tears of man, I feel a release. Something like the soo sad love songs of old. Something like the gentle carry of zero gravity outer space. More like the understanding of the wise ones. The Night Sky lives. Breathing zephyrs. Looking through the eyes of the stars. Weeping rain. Moving with the legs of the atmosphere. I'll fall in love with her. I'd kiss her lips, clouds. I'd hold her hands, air. I'd share secrets in hushed whispers, breeze. Night Sky will never tell. She paints for me, auroras. She dances with me, constellations. She cares. Find me staring into her eyes, for countless hours, lying on my back on a bed of grass. Find me singing songs to her, the snoring of my sleep; she never thinks it's obnoxious. Find me missing her when the sun steals her away as it makes its arc towards the western horizon. She always comes home. What more could I ask for? I find bliss in the Night Sky…
-poetic DesCent
April 2, 2007, 12:42 AM
At least once a year, you can find Darryl in front of a computer screen, as he thinks about the meaning of life and love.
Love, an intense feeling of tender affection and compassion. That's how my laptop defines it. Life, the quality that makes living animals and plants different from dead organisms and inorganic matter.
Its functions include the ability to take in food, adapt to the environment, grow, and reproduce.
Notice how, the definition of life says nothing about our ability to express emotion… Notice how, the definition of love says nothing about how necessary it is that we love and/or love others… Call me a dreamer. Call me a hopeless romantic. You will be right about one thing: I am hopeless. I don't dream much these days. At least not about, the things that once drew fancy in my small world. I'm not much of a romantic, how could one as lonely as I am be considered a romantic. I have no one in this world to romance. Hopeless, I am. I can never hope to be loved; and, I can never hope to really dream again.
Some people find my demeanor quite depressing. Some find my very presence to be quite boring. I've learned to find solace in my sorrows. I've found the activity of boredom. The secret lies in taking effort to not do anything at all. I can't wait until the day I die. It bothers me that even though I am very much alive, by my computer's definition or otherwise, I matter to no person… Not even myself. At least if I am dead, there will be good reason for my solitude, there will be reason for no one to love me. Yes, if you're wondering, to that is what I am reduced. I want someone to long for my existence. You see, you can't possibly understand. You are loved. Let me explain it to you:
No one calls me, except Sylvia. (Who only calls when there is no one else to talk to. I am an object to her. A "thing" that is always open to hear her babble, who will always laugh at her jokes, who will always reassure her that she is not alone, but that's only because she knows I'm such a lonely fool.)
No one thinks to invite me to parties. Why would a depressing asshole, like me, ever want to be surrounded by friends?
No one introduces me to his or her other friends. Why would anyone want to meet me? Most people would rather spend their time forgetting that I exist.
My own family is so distant; they might as well not exist. I'm not speaking about physical distance, because although, now, I am thousands of miles away… I was just as far away, when we lived in the same house.
Most of my past girlfriends, when I could obtain one, cheated on me. Not because they are slimy little whores, but more likely that they forgot they were dating me in the first place.
My ink pen knows more about me than any person.
I have trouble sleeping at night because I'm afraid that the one time someone decides to involve me in something, I won't be awake for the call.
Dead, having lost normal sensitivity to touch or pain, unable or unwilling to respond to, understand, or appreciate something, without human activity or anything interesting or entertaining. Seems like a more accurate description of myself. Science tell us, that without normal use of a neural activity, our brain pretty much deletes the old programming for it, and de-fragments, allowing more processor usage for the things we do use, like taking a shit or giving someone the finger. That said, I have not been touched in such an amount of time that I do not remember what a hug feels like. I do not remember the quixotic bliss of kissing. I have lost "normal sensitivity" to touch. I have been hurt for such an amount of time that pain is no more than nerves firing, no more than a physical response. Emotionally; however, I don't even feel at all. She tells me she does not love me… my brain says, "I need to cut the grass." Mother dies… my brain says, "I wonder if I logged out at work." They say they think I'm annoying… my brain says, "I wish I knew who sang that one song." I have lost normal sensitivity to pain. These things combined, have made me both unwilling and unable to respond to or appreciate pretty much anything. Why would you cry, unless you were hurt? If you can't feel the pain, you wouldn't know you were hurt, thus no tears. Why would you love someone, unless you've been loved? If you can't feel their embrace, you wouldn't know they loved you, thus no love in return. Why would I smile, unless I was happy? If I've forgotten joy, I would not know to show exuberance, thus no smile on this face. These things combined, render me incapable of undertaking in human activity. Remember our definition of "life." I will only grow as much as this cage allows, even rocks can be no larger than the inside of whatever they rest. It's impossible for me to reproduce lest I touch a woman, and most women who are interested in reproducing won't reproduce without loving their partner, even the plates of our Earth's crust will produce new continents over time. Sure, I take in food. However, does not the soil take in nutrients? Certainly, I've adapted to my environment. Even then, does not a mountain adapt to the powerful flow of the river that runs through it? I am no more alive that the stone gnomes in your lawn. I have no more life in this body than the mud tracked in on your boots. I am no more human than the continent, country, state, or city you live in. Even the Grand Canyon, the Rockies, and the Himalayas are more vivacious than I am. This year, at my computer, I've finally found the answer.
I once wrote, "One does not have life, but not love. For, the way one loves is the way one lives. And so, we live our lives for love, lest our heart stoppeth." The funny thing is that even after writing that, years ago mind you; it has taken until now for me to realize the inherent truth in those words. In my youth, I named the very problem with my existence. In my days now as a man, I comprehend its seriousness.
Zombie, an automation, robot, machine, sleepwalker. I must thank this digital dictionary for its thoroughness. I carry out tasks, similar to that of a living being, but am not. I can be programmed to do this, at that time, for these purposes, as efficiently as a well-oiled machine. In fact, I can think of a few supercomputers that could have probably put together a similar piece of writing as this, given the proper coding and resources. Walking but not awake, because what is not alive cannot walk; and what is not awake is asleep, and what is not alive is dead.
I am nothing. Nothing more than a suggestion of human. Nothing more than the vision of man. A shadow, if you will. Nothing more than an impression, a trace, a presence, or an apparition. A ghost. Zero Ghost. Good night.
Darryl L. Campbell
P.S. Don't try to cheer me up, I'm not sad. I simply had to write down the answers.
