Tuesday, July 31, 2007

The Waking: A strange book

The first journal entry is a very interesting read. I never knew myself as a person who enjoys reading diaries much. I always hated to see others in their own shoes. But anything that will keep my sane from this accursed place.

Bloody hell I still can't figure out where the fuck I am. The wind blows strongly still preventing me from seeing ahead. Still, I see a large lone jagged rock, jutting out from the surface. Perhaps I should run there for shelter.

The rock is quite far away so I start to flip through the next page of the journal. It seems to be an entry by someone else. The writing is much more curvy and has letters connecting together. Like a calligraphy, but not quite. I don't know what they call it, but I'm sure the writer really takes his time in putting his thoughts into his journal. As if to have others read it someday. Not like the previous entry where the strokes were harsh and bold. It shows the expressions and emotions in the writing.

But enough of that. Let's see what this fucker is on about.

Silent screams

Thank god it's Tuesday though it's still a long way from Friday. Still it's a lot better from Monday. God I hate Mondays. Not hate like the way that stupid orange cat does. I hate it because it reminds me of who I'm supposed to be, who I pretend to be.

Dim lights soothe the crappy piece of hell hole I'm supposed to call the place I work. The monitor of my Computer is almost blinding me, had I not have been used to it by now. It is late and others have already gone back home. I stare at the scar of my knee, it bleeds softly like a dripping sap from a large tree. Injury from sports. It's supposed to have dried up by now but somehow it keeps on bleeding. I stare a little longer, fascinated by it. That which I love most, flows through my very own body.

The pain starts to scream again deep within my belly. It hurts so much but I mustn't show my weakness in public. Not here. Not now. Not when others will raise suspicions of me. They'd think I'm a monster. Spawn of the devil, not like the Geeky wimp that I portray myself to be. Greg and his writing they'd say. I'll gladly let them keep it that way.

I must log off and head back home now. Dinner awaits home and I mustn't let it rot before I quench my hunger. God I love burgers.

I pinch my stomach and squint my eyes, trying to withstand the screaming inside. I must hold on for a while. I must remain normal.

Still, I think sooner or later someone's bound to know. Stalking me to wherever I go. Like my own shadow.

Ok fuck it. It's time to go home.

The pain. It screams. I must feed soon.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

The Waking


Complete utter silence.

And then, a monotonous ringing is heard, accompanying my consciousness, or rather, reminding me the i have one.

I start to breathe. Inhale, then exhale.

Slowly my senses start to kick in. First the ringing dissipates, into something deeper, a long howling banshee sound, like that of a wind.

I feel my hands, my fingers. They tell me of something uncomfortable beneath. Around. Everywhere. I can feel my organs inside, wrapped around a thin layer of skin. Skin irritation comes with the howling sound. It feels like small little ice particles pricking on my face. maybe that's what it is.

Squint, because that's what we do before we open our eyes. We squint first to make sure our eyes are in place. I squint and feel knives stabbing my eyes. Moments later the pain is bearable and I slowly open my lids.

Something hard jabs at my tear ducts. I flick it off with my finger. A sand particle. It should be normal for people coming up from sleep, except mine is real sand. No wait, there's more. In fact, it's all around me.

As the blurry white slowly melts into shapes, I now see myself lying on a dune sea, with the winds howling, throwing more sand around on my face.

Is this real?

Am I Real?

Fuck, my chest hurts. I guess that's real. Is that my lungs, oww damn. My heart's beating fast, painfully fast. Well now I know Im alive, or at least I feel a live.

Where the hell am I? What am I? As I stand up amidst the chaos sands, I know one thing's for sure. I'm alone, for nothing else resembles that of life, or what I make of life, for miles away.

I start to walk, slowly, painfully. God damn shoes would be a great idea.

Time flows through almost like a stream, almost non existent. I don't remember how long I walk, was it 5 minutes or 5 years? A million questions and thoughts run through my already heavy head. I don't know if it's the thoughts that's giving me this bloody headache or the rough sand storm.

I keep thinking and keep walking and keep wondering and SHIT OW FUCK!!

My toe, my god damn fucking toe. Stupid fucking rectangular rock. Wait, what the hell.

A book. What the hell is it... oh fuck it. As I brush the sand off the cover, I recognize a logo, that of a broken hourglass. Let's see what's inside.

Writings... Pages upon pages of different handwritings. They seem to be telling a story, a journal perhaps. Yeah that's what it is. A journal, with a broken hourglass, and handwritings of different people.

Hmm... perhaps I should read one entry. It's not like I have anything better to do anyway.

The first entry seems rough and hard, the pages almost tearing a part. Still, it seems pretty well written.