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What follows is a character journal. Please keep in mind it is NOT MY JOURNAL. It is a CHARACTER'S JOURNAL. HIS name is Karma. Hopefully you will enjoy him.
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The Gravity of Memories:
One of my favourite quotes is "You who use languages, you are such liars." It's in an Orson Scott Card book; Ender Wiggin's series. It's said by the Hive queen, which if you've read the books, you'll know is telepathic, and doesn't use language, but thought, to communicate.
And we are such liars. Do you, reader, whoever you maybe... whether you're Him or someone else whose wandered in... Do you realize that human history is a series of pretty stories we tell each other. Do you realize that 'Fact' seldom is.
I live in a world of infinite (in-fi-nite as opposed to finite [fi-nite]) possiblity, where the only proof of anything is that I can see and touch it. It can drive one insane. Because, being human, I can't really trust my senses to tell me the truth any more than I can trust my brain, and I certainly do not trust anyone else to tell me the finite truth any more than I trust my own ears, eyes, nose, skin...
And memories... these things that live in our brains only as the firing of electrical impluses in our synapses... I know what they tell me, but how can I trust them... but oh, they will weigh you down, they will pull you in.
Sorry if my grammar goes awry, but that's what you get when I go 'Stream of Conciousness'.
And memories, they can hurt. They are the pain of the knife, and the wine and ash that follows. Do you, dear reader, know what scarification is? Do you know what bondage/sadomasochism is? I'm sure at least one of you does. Memories are the scar tissue in the brain. Do you understand? It's all the places where it's become unsmooth. There's very little difference between the brain and the skin in someways. Both are constantly active, and both are partially dead to the world because they can't withstand the constant activity.
They say (the ever present they of so called 'common' knowledge) , the average human being uses only about one third of its brain. (I say its because it is true that a human is no more than a very well developed animal.} I've come to think of the dead space in the human cranium as the callus that develops on skin when one uses it often.
And memories, they will drag one down. Don't think I'm taking them lightly. I am not. They are one of the most critical pieces of how a human percieves their current world. Because we all were the contact lens of our memory, and it does colour all we see.
Now knowing this, the question is,"Should it?"
But take away memory and what does a human become?
People ramble that Love, or Anger, or Pride, is the difference between man and animal. I disagree. The difference is Memory. What are any of those things if one can not remember.
And that wasn't where I was going, but that's what you get when I go 'Stream of Consciousness'.
Let me move back on track.
I wanted these journals as a way to communicate with Him. Though I am obtuse in my manner of manuscription. (I could have said communiction, but He can't see my body language here, nor hear my tone of voice, all one can see is my writing.) That's neither here, nor there really.
What I want to get across is my past. Because it is so much a part of who I am, It's why I communicate the way I do, why I am as ******** up as I am. I'm not one to resort to explicatives often, but I do find them, useful, on occasion. Am I am one Damaged Little ********, to paraphrase Crime and Punishment: In Suburbia. (It's a favourite of mine, you should go rent it, if you haven't seen it yet. ... Whomever you are.)
So, I'll now try to give you a snippet of the weight which pins me, the boulder which I must constantly roll up the hill of intelligence, the rock against which my sanity pounds it's dirty laundry. Mind you, I am going to try to put this episode (for that is all it is) into words as I remember it occuring. I do not make any claims to it's factual truth, because as I've stated, memory is not nessesarily all it seems.
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the smell of blood, and excrement... the sounds of screaming... wait... that's me... searing pain... the smell of wine... burning... wax on my back... burning skin... searing pain again... cutting pain... my shoulders feel as if they are being torn off my body... the sight of a thin strip of skin flung past my head to fall on the floor infront of me... the distant realization that it's my own... black...
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Waking in a clean bed... bandages around my body. "Welcome back to the land of the living, beautiful." She's beside me. I can feel the tears sliding down my face already. "What happened?" I ask weakly. "You were punished." She says simply. "I don't remember... what did I do, Mistress?" I can't help but add the title, my brain tells me I must, my body tells me I must, I am a prisoner to them, and to Her. "You disobeyed." She says, and the world goes black again.
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That was the first time. As you'll find. It wasn't the last.
And the memories...
They will weight you down.
 GreenPsychoKitti · Tue Dec 26, 2006 @ 02:14pm · 0 Comments |
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