Day 6700 – Images fly by in the night
A fragment of fiction from October 25, 2000
Images fly by in the night. Sometimes I remember them. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes they’re like dreams – they seem so real, so meaningful, but you know that soon, you’ll wake up and they’ll be gone.
Once upon a time they would have been called visions. Once upon a time I would have been a prophet, a great man, one with who had the Voice. Voice of God, Voice of Man, I don’t know what it is. Sight, endless sight, and music that would never die.
Once upon a time that would have been respected.
Now, I sit here, or sometimes stand, alone in my room, trying to stop it from coming, praying that no one – no one – will ever know.
Sometimes it comes suddenly, like an ocean storm that rolls in without any warning. Other times, I can feel it building, slowly, and slowly, and slowly, and I feel like I will shatter, I feel like it’s too much, and I can’t take it, and why won’t it just come, why won’t it just end, and then it does come, and I’m swept away, frightened, no, terrified, but relieved that it will soon be over. I guess I’m crazy. I tell myself I’m not, I tell myself it means something.
But it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything at all.
It started when I was five. I remember when it started. It’s strange – I don’t remember anything before that. But I remember – this I remember clearly – I remember that this, this Sight, this Voice, was new.
I was playing on the beach, building a sand castle with my father. The castle had thin towers and thick walls, and arching bridges that defied the laws of gravity and sand. It was