Wednesday, March 13, 2013

The Busy Week, or Inevitability: A Brief Poetical Tragedy

On the first day, I woke up, realized that all ideas of time are merely an illusion created by the brain in an attempt to make sense of an unexplainable, chaotic existence, and went back to sleep.

On the second day, I woke up, realized that there is virtually no likelihood that any of my thoughts or observations have any relation to reality, and went back to sleep.

On the third day, I woke up, realized that love is nothing more than a meaningless series of chemical reactions, and went back to sleep.

On the fourth day, I woke up, realized that there is no link between cause and effect, and went back to sleep.

On the fifth day, I woke up, realized that my existence is entirely irrelevant, and went back to sleep. 

On the sixth day, I woke up, realized that meaning is meaningless, and went back to sleep.

On the seventh day, I rested.


Postscript: This note was discovered next to the body of Eve Adams, who was found lying in her bed on September 17th, 2012, three days before her twenty-second birthday.

Monday, March 11, 2013


Proposition 1: I am going to die in a fraction of a second. The bullet currently flying through the air at approximately 1500 feet per second directly toward my face will almost certainly guarantee that. And I don't want them to keep me on life support if a few bits of grey matter somehow don't explode out of the back of my head. I don't want to be a vegetable. I would rather die. In fact, based on the set of circumstances that got me here in the first place, a very persuasive argument could probably be made that I want to die.

Proposition 2: The gun from which the bullet was ejected is performing its proper function. This one is a no-brainer (excuse the pun). The function of a gun is to fire bullets, and this one seems to be performing very much up to speed. The bullet is not the result of some malfunction on the part of the gun; it is only a good little device (can I call a device good? Never mind, doesn't matter now) doing what it was told by its master. Which leads me to the next step.

Proposition 3: The owner of the gun wants to kill me. This would seem obvious not only from his actions (firing the gun at me) but from the chilling look of murderous rage that is wildly contorting his face. This begs a question: why? Why does this stranger, who I have never met before, want to fire a gun at my face? I suppose I can't blame him, really; the knife I stuck between his ribs is probably sufficient to create a causal connection, or at least some major blood loss.

Proposition 4: The knife is fairly large, a 4-inch steak knife taken from a drawer in my kitchen. Needless to say, I took it. Apparently not as sharp as I thought, though... who knew it took so much effort to stick a knife in someone? That's what gave him time to pull the Glock (it's a Glock, right? I think so... that's what it is in all the movies, at least). But how am I supposed to know it doesn't just slide in? Well, I got it in eventually. 

Proposition 5: And who am I? Why did I do it? These are the big, important questions, aren't they? And yet... I'm pretty foggy on both of these things, especially the last one. Because I didn't do it for any particular reason. Unlike the seemingly logical progression of this narrative, the preceding events lacked any semblance of causation. A series of unconnected events resulted in a series of connected ones, and that's the best explanation I can give. I can give a slightly better answer to the question of who I am, though: my name is-

Conclusion: *drops of blood speckle the page*