The Askew Narrative

The spears fly as I race through the dust and the bloody mist. Hundreds of screaming soldiers all around me remind me of the battle I may never return home from. It’s armageddon as I fire my hand cannon blindly into the crowds of armored warriors all around me. I keep pushing forward, grasping every second and remembering it with a breath that could be my last. All the motion makes me feel weightless as I stride forward, anxious and paranoid that any moment an enemy blade will slice through my flesh. 

I see blurs of red and brown surround me as my vision begins to shatter. The clanging of swords and the calls of dying men are the music of this battlefield and I stand, blood furiously forcing it’s way through every vein. My heart is beating so fast I can barely feel it, and my armor is so scathed I don’t even believe it could protect me anymore. I’ve come across a ditch of some sort. I can’t stand any longer and if I faint now I’ll be trampled. If only i could make it to that ditch, a few more steps. maybe then I could… Made it! This war has just begun and already I’m wasted. Not all the holy angels above could grant me another drop of strength. I’ve fought so many battles, bested so many warlords, but nothing compared to the brutality of this hellfire warfare. Lying here, I don’t even know who’s winning. 

All I see are bodies falling, blood spilling and swords sparking. My visions worse now, no doubt on account of the blood in my eyes. I need to wait. Sit it out and maybe they’ll all think I’m dead, and maybe they leave my breathing corpse be, and maybe they’ll dump me on a pile of bodies that I could sneak away from when no one’s looking. Or maybe I’ll be trampled. Either way I’ll see when I wake up, that is, if I ever wake up again. Damn, it happened again. 

One of those damn dreams that leaves me drooling like a monkey on the surface of my work desk. The music over the loud speaker increases just slightly in volume. Instrumental music always plays. It makes me picture english gardens and celestial events so fantastic that no poet could possibly put it into words. I can imagine stars blasting apart and spraying glittery fire across the blackness of space. Time is still and planets of rainbow-ish beauty glimmer in the far far distance.

All these images shooting through my mind like hot slugs all from the boredom of slumping in a cubical for nine hours everyday for the past two years. With a fetish for war-like environments I doze off and dream up my own conflicts. A reflection of the lives I see all summed up in a pointless battle to keep standing, every once in a while giving into that thrustful outburst of anger or sadness. They teem so close together sometimes. When I finally do wake I can see that it’s almost twelve. It’s a late night at the office and the banker bosses have left early to meet up at restaurants and sniff dust in the break rooms.

They drink their wealth away and imagine they’re better then one another, but no more better then the elders that raised them. In some cases inheriting riches rather then gaining them. But not everyone can be rich and not everyone can be happy. It’s a subject and opinion that could be cut up and examined so many ways that everyone involved would have their head spinning by the time anyone figured it out. None the less, my work day has finally ended after an eternity of sitting and pressing little keys. It’s almost as if we are a small part of a grand plan. One to write the ultimate code. A code so big that no one man could do it alone, and so we are hired to push the buttons and type up the numbers. Hundreds of men and women of every sex, race and religion typing and typing away to fuel an un-calculable series of code that will still be in the processes of being typed well past my life expectancy. 

But for that piece of paper that keeps my home running I will do anything short of self mutilation. It’s not like I get any sleep to begin with. So cramming large amounts of work into unused hours might be useful to someone other then me. Disregarding those moments in time where I space out and can’t exactly comprehend what I’m typing or what to talk about. 

These are times in which my mind becomes ignorantly self-philosophical and I ramble like a know-it-all immortal. These times don’t lessen as I grow older, and even in my early twenties I can’t help but feel that my perception of what amusement is will become dull, just like my vision in my day dreams about war. I have often contemplated about writing a novel but debated the subject with myself so much that all time that could have been dedicated to said novel was spent wondering what to write about in the first place. 

Despite never reading, unless I was forced to, I have a grand selection of favorite novels and short stories. It was my fascination in transitioning thoughts that sparked my interest in writing. And my thoughts are what sparked the blockades which keep me from publishing any of my work. Generic stories with generic characters is all anyone seems to see in my work. Its like no one sees the deeper meaning and the true context of the words I use and how well I use them. 

I just float on as if one day my work will be liked by some soul moved by my nonsense on paper. I don’t believe a fraction of things need to have a reason, which is most certainly a given factor to the fact that most people can’t understand my work, or how I think for that matter. 

Disregarding the dull mentality I had been harboring all day it was midnight and time to head home to my single room with a bed and a television. I was a collector of retro video games and specific comic book series. The single room was big enough, but I constantly felt that if I was going to put a much wanted chair or other piece of furniture in, well, it would be so cluttered and I might just gain claustrophobia. Though it might be nice to come home from a day of hell, recline on an arm chair and smoke a pipe like in the victorian times, that is, if anyone actually did that back then. 

Apart from the worry of wasting more money and taking up more space I always found great comfort on the floor of my room. The carpet was red and as soft as a carpet of my affordance could be, at least for now. I usually had papers scattered everywhere. What was on them ranged from doodles to poems and even print outs of images I had fiddle around with on my computer. Along with paints, boxes, a framed painting laying against my dresser and wine glasses from late nights weeks prior, my room was usually a mess. Any remark I received on behalf of it I usually shrugged off. 

The common badgering a kid would hear growing up. “How can you live like this?” I’m sure your parents have spoke it once or twice. Little did the people complaining about me realize that I fail to actually “live” in this place. My true home exists outside with the air and sky. My room was simply my storage place and resting area. I’d much rather live in the damp construction areas of an old cathedral or large church. Something like Notre Dame. It still wouldn’t change the fact that I haven’t got a dollar to my name and all I really care about is the simple acts of eating and sleeping anymore. Human interaction in and of itself has become less important then catching the next episode of some show I can’t remember the name of. It’s an almost repetitive cycle of ruts and dullness. Almost like November. 

November always seemed like a depressing month to me. The name itself always have me a gloomy feeling in my gut. It promised late night rain an bone-chilling morning breezes. It was a month I just couldn't stand and out of every month for me to be late on rent it had to be this one. As much as I worked at the office I was just functioning as an intern. And an abused one at that. My real job confined me to the smelling slums of the back of a super market amidst the sheetrock and piping. My environment was damn and broken as every cemented floor and brick wall around me stood riddled with cracks. 

The tubing upon the ceiling looked ancient and boxed heat generators were hung up in different places to balance the otherwise ungodly temperature of the store. With hours changing every week it was hard to keep on top of scheduling, but it added a needed blend of anxiety into my otherwise dull, dull life. Some days I would work seven hours which pained my unprotected feet from all the useless walking. For work I could finish in three hours the universe certainly found a way for it to be even more stressful and prolonged. The people I work with are decent, disregarding the few changelings that pick verbal confrontations with the managers. 

It would certainly seem that they need the workers more then the workers needed the company. This fact proved even more true as the super market's locations had dwindled heavily over the past three years. Being that my house is so close to my job helps greatly due to the fact that I don't have a car. Yes I still live with my parents, but in my own section of the house, cornered off downstairs in what some would perceive as the "downstairs area", but in fact is the first floor of a house that was built on a hill. It’s a decent enough home.

I find that most of my classification of things are along side the term “decent enough”. I guess this is because I feel I’m too under privileged to feel grateful for what I have and too fearful of being labeled as ungrateful. So everything is just decent. Much like the style of my writing is described, I find it hard to move an idea forward. I spend too much time lingering to a detail everyone could care less about and lose the hapless fool who began to be interested in my writing to begin with. 

It’s a curse of my fascination to change my story when the ideas run thin. Completely uprooting the central idea and almost making complete nonsense out of whatever information I’ve represented. Because in fact you do not know me or who I really am. Only what you read, and despite wether or not this could be a grand novel is entirely up to forces out of my control. maybe this is all just some short story that didn’t want to end, so the words kept running and the pages kept flipping until it was finally realized that all of it was for nothing. And at that moment the glorious words “the end” appear a few lines after the final pointless sentence.

That almost seems like the perfect sum of what poetically poisonous people would use to describe life. And how poisonous they are. Despite writing classes in high school I do not believe my ability to make stories has improved any bit, stemming from the dead-set mind-set to not desire any ability to move forward. Ergo, I just don’t give a s**t. caring enough to take time out of my short life and type away my time when I could be getting sleep would seem quite troublesome looking down at it.  hell, without auto correct my writing would be miscellaneous and abominable. I love big words like those.

I wonder if you believe all that stuff I just said.  about working at a super market and living with my parents. cause in fact you just believe a lie, proving once again that this story will only take you where I want you to go. So forget about any illusion you have about learning me and growing with me, because I’m far too much character for you to handle, and otherwise, I just won’t let you. You will step at my pace and follow my tune. If you can’t comply with these guidelines you can always close this up and go read a book about vampires, or fairies or other reimagined form of fictional, commercialized garbage. 

I wonder if my point would have been anymore vulagish if I had used the word “s**t” instead of “garbage” just then. And for those of you with no imagination, “vulgarish” is a word I just made up. It means “to be, in a way, vulgar”. If you didn’t catch on from the sounding of the word. I may make up words again, if necessary. This is only to drasticate the fact that sometimes the english language just doesn’t have the words to describe how I feel or wish to convey things. And once again my meat-puppets, I made up that word “drasticate”, too. It means “…to make known in a drastic manner…”. 

I feel the more you stick with me the more you’ll grow keen to my ways. Then at the end of all this you can tell me if I’m a f*****g lunatic or not. For now, I’m gonna go take a nap. Maybe when I wake up the world will have come to an end. One can only hope.