kitewithfish (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kitewithfish) wrote2008-06-28 02:42 pm
kitewithfish) wrote2008-06-28 02:42 pm
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Day 5: stickies
Day 5
The wall’s color, if I remembered correctly, was actually a certain shade of pleasant and cheery blue. It was the kind of color that parents paint the room of their first born sons. But I wasn’t anyone’s son that I knew of, and the color of the wall was invisible under a double layer of sticky notes. The room was turned a dull yellow everywhere but the very tallest margins of the room.
I’ve tried before to explain the careful system of knowledge posted on that wall, the experiment I’d made it to track every thought I had while I was in the room, write it down, and connect them all together. There had to be a connection. I was sure of it. Or maybe I just needed there to be one badly enough that I was imagining.
I scribbled that doubtful thought down on a sticky, and put it up the area for April 27th, 2008. Carefully, I tracked backwards through the older notes for a common thread. The common themes, the things to which my mind always returns, are linked chronologically by lengths of string attached to push pins thrust through the heart of the sticky notes in question. I can look back over time and see how much I’ve thought about masturbation, nihilism, the uncertainty of language, and certain film stars.
I found the thread. This particular link was a common one- the tiny lengths of string spanned often mere days, or sometimes not ever that long. The first note was dated to the very day that I started this project. Other patterns can often go months without repeating, and it becomes very difficult to track them back to their origins. Some are so far unrepeated- these are very rare indeed, and mostly painful, though generally not so painful as the thoughts that reoccur often.
I have discovered through the course of this experiment that I am a creature of repetition. Cycles come and go, but there is nothing new under the sun in this room.
I have been in the room three years so far. The first three months were the worst. After that, I gave up on trying to catalogue the physical imperfections of the walls and my own body and gave myself up solely to mental observation. My own psyche has proven fertile ground, but like most farms it is suited to certain types of crops only. Others will not grow, not matter how lovingly tended. As an experiment I once tried to convince myself I possessed the ability to fly. It failed; my madness, if that is what it may be called, lies in another direction.
I will open the doors next week. It will have been three years to the day. I have received news from the outside: I am not a prisoner, and if I chose to walk out today I could. People I once knew have moved away, married, or died. They are as fluid as my own thoughts before I write them down, fix them fast upon the walls of my fortress and my prison cell in safe, predictable words on tiny slips of paper. People are unmeasured and unchartable: solitude is security. I write that down, stick it to the wall, and then trace the pattern back to the very first day and the very first note I fixed to these walls, when I decided not to come out.
The wall’s color, if I remembered correctly, was actually a certain shade of pleasant and cheery blue. It was the kind of color that parents paint the room of their first born sons. But I wasn’t anyone’s son that I knew of, and the color of the wall was invisible under a double layer of sticky notes. The room was turned a dull yellow everywhere but the very tallest margins of the room.
I’ve tried before to explain the careful system of knowledge posted on that wall, the experiment I’d made it to track every thought I had while I was in the room, write it down, and connect them all together. There had to be a connection. I was sure of it. Or maybe I just needed there to be one badly enough that I was imagining.
I scribbled that doubtful thought down on a sticky, and put it up the area for April 27th, 2008. Carefully, I tracked backwards through the older notes for a common thread. The common themes, the things to which my mind always returns, are linked chronologically by lengths of string attached to push pins thrust through the heart of the sticky notes in question. I can look back over time and see how much I’ve thought about masturbation, nihilism, the uncertainty of language, and certain film stars.
I found the thread. This particular link was a common one- the tiny lengths of string spanned often mere days, or sometimes not ever that long. The first note was dated to the very day that I started this project. Other patterns can often go months without repeating, and it becomes very difficult to track them back to their origins. Some are so far unrepeated- these are very rare indeed, and mostly painful, though generally not so painful as the thoughts that reoccur often.
I have discovered through the course of this experiment that I am a creature of repetition. Cycles come and go, but there is nothing new under the sun in this room.
I have been in the room three years so far. The first three months were the worst. After that, I gave up on trying to catalogue the physical imperfections of the walls and my own body and gave myself up solely to mental observation. My own psyche has proven fertile ground, but like most farms it is suited to certain types of crops only. Others will not grow, not matter how lovingly tended. As an experiment I once tried to convince myself I possessed the ability to fly. It failed; my madness, if that is what it may be called, lies in another direction.
I will open the doors next week. It will have been three years to the day. I have received news from the outside: I am not a prisoner, and if I chose to walk out today I could. People I once knew have moved away, married, or died. They are as fluid as my own thoughts before I write them down, fix them fast upon the walls of my fortress and my prison cell in safe, predictable words on tiny slips of paper. People are unmeasured and unchartable: solitude is security. I write that down, stick it to the wall, and then trace the pattern back to the very first day and the very first note I fixed to these walls, when I decided not to come out.
you need to come home
Re: you need to come home
This post is for my writing thing-bob, you noticed? The 'I' here is not me.
Re: you need to come home