Author: Nick Ransom PM
There's something in this that words can't work for, Something so utterly inuman and wonderful that I'm wasting my time trying to capture.Rated: Fiction T - English - Mystery - Words: 509 - Published: 08-18-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2839477
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There's something in this that words can't work for,
Something so utterly inuman and wonderful that I'm wasting my time trying to capture.
And in that futility, I realize, is something innately and stunningly human.
Paradox. Hypocrisy. Complete, silly, bullshit.
I realize that if only in the next sixty-seconds, this is worth trying if only for the sake of trying.
Worth doing if only to see if it can be done.
Something about the sky this morning and everything coming in with it fills me with awe. Smells like shampoo and exhaust fumes, clean laundry and rotting fry grease are fluttering outside my window, outside of the same window that we found the mantis on a few days ago. Over shit-colored buildings and burnt out apartments is a sky that puts Van Gough to shame. Over a city that's slowly dying like a cancer patient are colors that are so beautiful, so vivid and so incredibly unreal that I feel everything in me move. The feelings, the thoughts, the sounds of 6:20 AM are hauntingly lonely and somehow so more unifying than anything in the world, as the thought enters my mind that the only other people awake to see this spectacular sight are people as confused and fucking lost as I am, people getting up for jobs they hate and wasting time on things they don't comprehend. In the next few moments I am struck by a sudden, deepening, alienating sense of togetherness far beyond anything those New Age psychopaths can rant about. This isn't 'higher being', this isn't 'cosmic awareness'. It's bold-faced, honest, terrified humanity at it's beautiful, hideous finest.
The sun's first whispers are crawling across streetlamps now, faux-antique streetlights planted in a worn out town, pretending to give us what? Fuck if I know. An excuse to bitch when the scumbags break those sweet, cosy little lightbulbs maybe. Powerlines are one-dimensional cutouts across a psychotically beautiful sky, something I'm stuck on, something I'm drawn to and something that innately fucking terrifies me. I feel the changes moving in, I smell the fear and hope and desolation that the birthing Tomorrow will bring and I accept them, embrace them, and wait.
Without the sounds of sirens, speaking, screaming and stupidity this city could almost be beautiful. This house could almost be a home. I can almost feel myself again.
With these colors that I've ached to capture, shades that I'd die to be able to paint and words that come from somewhere else, I'm breathing in again, as the world slowly exhales and Tomorrow digs deep it's nails, casting off the shell of Yesterday. Like something from the Langoliers, Yesterday becomes more than a word and more than a date on the calendar, it becomes moot. Nonexistant, surviving only in history and other less tangible ideas. Tomorrow has become Today, and I've once more survived the strangely lonely, ghostly time of In Between.