Non has a minion!

Be the Walker

Anthony was seated among many anonymous individuals who stood in evenly spaced rows, facing the same direction. A man in the front was leading them. Mouths were opened and an unrecognizable song filled the interior of the building. Sound was thrust upon tall stained glass windows that clothed the walls. They depicted scenes of joyful individuals kneeling before an illuminated figure, scenes of the fallen finding their way and scenes of unjust misery. The windows were shaken slightly. The soft notes escaped and brushed gently across the cauterized sky. Chords danced along the stars, surrounding the shrouding malevolent dusk with a wave of momentary enlightenment. The music reached the ears of all who listened, but they did not reach Anthony.

Their hope was expressed through the hymns. They desired so badly to be saved from an eternity of loneliness. They were not ready to die. They were not prepared for that black curtain of everlasting iniquity to fall upon them. They sought the deliverance of a solution.

There was a certain atmosphere created in this place that could not be replicated elsewhere. Only these places could inspire such a thought, the solution, of salvation.

The singing ceased and the crowd was seated. They moved in waves, oscillating accordingly to the leader’s speech. It was a cult to some extent, for the sea of people listened blindly to the speech. The words were like ambrosia. Like an addictive habit that could never be broken. Their faces were painted with a uniform countenance that depicted their deep concentration. The leader spoke in a smoother tone. The congregation was still. Anthony decided to leave as his row was summoned to the front. He exited subtly as the remainder of the row made their way forward. He left without any guilt, as he did this frequently. The heavy wooden doors of the church were opened with much effort. He regained his regular sangfroid and patrolled a familiar path of unforgiving silence. The colors around him were shrouded in a thin layer of gray. There was evidence of mist sidling onto the broken shoreline, but the gray was otherwise inexplicable. A fresh breeze swept past him, taking the heat from his face along with it. The breeze soared above the informally clad trees, dancing like music as it rose to the clouds. This gust amused him greatly, despite his dismal mood. He imagined himself dancing as he continued walking towards a somewhat secluded forest that he claimed as his own. It overlooked the small town of Grand Marais that companioned the temperamental Lake Superior. He stared at the lake with a somewhat dazed expression, yet allowed for some evidence of infatuation to be shown.

A gentle drizzle began to fall lightly from the sky. He needed time to think now, as he had recently found a sadness that destroyed him inside. It was a deeply rooted sadness that would not be cured by simple things like taking up a new hobby. His father disappointed him. His family was permanently fractured. The lake itself was his closest relation. He would talk to it frequently in his mind. He recounted stories of himself, dissecting and explaining what he thought of life. Though he soon grew weary of these conversations, as they were not exactly conversations. The lake never replied. The lake was never judgmental. It never accused him or treated him differently because of anything he’d done. Unlike him, it preferred silence. There was a certain beauty to silence. It would take an excessive amount of patience to attain an appreciation for it. All he needed was distractions from this.

Ahead was a steep cliff. The cliff protruded from the ground with a consistent height, and there was no obvious way around it. The surrounding trees were an impenetrable horde of prickly warriors. They never slept. Very few ventured to face them. The cliff was dangerously ragged, however this raggedness allowed for excellent traction. He effortlessly scaled the wall as he had done countless times before. The apex of the cliff overlooked everything. He could see the palisades in the distance, tapering off lighter and lighter in color until all that remained was lake and sky. Their teeth dug into the horizon line like knives. His emotions were stabilized and he descended the other side, into a land of his own. The area itself was nicely secluded from the town. Only those who knew about it would be able to find it.

After traversing the extensive wall of rock, there was a hemispherical opening in the trees. The opening ended with a cliff that would mercilessly devour any who decided to challenge it. A birch tree stood solo in the center. Its branches bare and spectral white. A wooden cross was nailed to it, carefully selected rocks placed around it. Varying sizes. Smooth and comforting. It was an excellent place to ponder, but he did not need a quiet place. He never needed quiet. It was the disconnection to reality that he enjoyed. In an attempt to make the place a bit more satisfying, he had cleared the majority of the flat land of sticks. Beneath the birch tree, he would enjoy life in his own perfect sphere. He would spend countless hours sitting in the same spot staring unwaveringly into the lake’s disorderly visage.

As the dusk landed softly upon the dismal land, the horizon line was decorated with the rich oranges and blended into a soft pink. The clouds darkened as they moved higher. They would have been barely distinguishable if it hadn’t been for the fading sun that outlined the indigo clouds in a sharp pink. A single seagull flew solo over the large rock formations that bordered the town. He watched it and thought of himself as a bird. Free of all the pernicious endeavors that took place every day.

It was becoming increasingly apparent that the sky was darkening. He collected himself and stood up slowly from the rocks. As he walked back, he wrote in his diary.

February 4

No one is able to stimulate in the imagination. We must act upon these attempted stimulations and project them into a society. Simple thoughts have been claimed by anyone and everyone, for thoughts are present in all who seek to gain something. Uncanny knowledge resides in all, caged, waiting, squirming until finally set free from the bounds that is man’s imagination, the bounds that are man’s thoughts. All the lurid colors that man displays are determined by emotions. These emotions, these deepest thoughts, cannot be unworthy. Anyone is able to believe in something, to aspire to an accomplishment, even if it cannot be attained. The spiritual desire to become something, an important figure––someone “special,” someone who differs from the rest; attracts attention; undoubtedly noticed, will never leave. Yet there remain the ones who are sophisticated and tame, but all that remains of the quiet people are clones; those who failed to obtain their individuality. A lonely spirit wandering is nothing but a multiple-choice question. The majority of the spirits falter, and do not desire to do anything but deceive those who seek true success. True happiness is that in which you are inclined to cry.

He did begin to cry. The words couldn’t have been more true him. These etchings in the paper cried out to him, and his tears flowed outward and onto the desiccated soil. He felt a tightness in his neck, a restriction of breathing, and enormous pressure against the back of his face. The tears relieved pressure, but did nothing for his inability to cope with his own thoughts. His head was lowered, as this crying embarrassed him. His walking became more of a slow jog as he drew nearer to the town.

A face was watching him. It was not hidden. It was openly tracking his movements. Observing and concluding. He failed to notice as he ran by, blinded by tears. The face did not change. It simply stared.

He ran to the church. They were all sitting alone in their rooms. But what good was that? The air seemed vacated of all judgment. He turned to the lake, seeking guidance in it with those innocent eyes. He sought everything he could never comprehend. He wandered unstably towards the church entrance. Rubbish was piled carelessly aside it. Various metal bottle caps were scattered about the ground. A half-covered bottle leered at him from behind a trash bag. He could only think of his father. He felt a sinking sensation, and needed a distraction. He regarded the church before him. He had made so many critical conclusions about it, but he thought it would be an adequate distraction. He flipped through the bible until he reached Psalms 23. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” He stared at this passage for a while, taking in every word and playing them over and over again in his mind. It was already memorized, yet he had a strong compulsion to read it again. He wasn’t able to stop himself. He didn’t know why. This passage did nothing for him other than invite back painful memories. He flipped to Matthew 5.4. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Ironically, he felt no comfort from this passage in the bible. Another dead passage. Another promise designed to die. The words were dead to him. Just black lettering on a page of all those faltered promises.

He sat alone in his dimly lit room. His eyes were closed as he either pondered a solution to his life, or a way out of the predicament he was currently situated in. A small spider spun a neatly woven web in the corner of the room. The translucent spider was careful when weaving its web. It paused and stared with its numerous eyes at a potential meal. It was a moth fluttering along, oblivious of the spider. He opened his eyes and glanced at the spider confronting the moth. The spider waited patiently for the moth to wander into its web. The moth continued to flutter and make elegant swoops from side to side when it flew. Eventually it made its way to the spider’s translucent web. Its wing brushed up against it and stuck. The auspicious moth landed on the web in an attempt to free its wing. It realized its fatal error. The spider awoke from its statue-like state as it approached its prey. He decided not to watch the rest.

He rose gracefully from his chair and ambled over to the full-body mirror that was attached to the opposite side of his door. The mirror was old, which was the main reason as to why it was cloudy on the edges, and it had small cracks in the corners due to past mistakes. He did not take the time to notice these faults, for the mirror still reflected anything in front of it. He was satisfied with anything, no matter what condition, as long as it functioned in the matter it was intended.

He stared at himself in the mirror and examined his physical features. His face was lean. Shallow cheekbones and a blunt nose had caused much mocking in his younger years. All those socially deprived children. How they laughed so harshly. He managed to get through those times. He ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair and stared into his own soft blue eyes, searching. He did not know what he was searching for. He waited, still staring, and found a memory.

“Neal. Get out of my way.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“I won’t talk to you. Let me leave.”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Neal. You’re drunk. Let me leave.”

“No. I want to talk to you.”

“I’m not going to talk to you when you’re drunk.”

Silence.

“I’m leaving. Take care of him.”

Three footsteps. Two swings of the door. One moment of nothing.

“I just want to talk to you one last time.”

More silence. Those were the last words he heard.

He couldn’t help but be saddened. He sighed, removed the hand from his hair, and broke eye contact with himself.

The moth was now mummified in the spider’s webbing, dead. He stared at the moth and could not help but think that it was a beautiful death. To be caught in such a delicate web, bound in such glossy thread as soft as silk. One can only wonder how such a wonderful thing can be a cause of death.

A beautiful death. That’s the way I want to go, he stated breathlessly to himself. When it came to the subject of death, or anything relating to life and death, he was scared. He attempted not to think of these things very often, for it would spiral him into a whole new thought process, which caused much pain when thinking. This was problematic for him, for he enjoyed thinking. However, whenever he thought, he tended to drift towards the subject of death. He had no philosophy on life quite yet, for he was still unsure about his thoughts towards God. The fact that his father was a Lutheran pastor made no difference to him. This was his life. He should be the one conducting it. In order to keep his options open, he declared himself Agnostic. He would have liked to believe in God, for He seemed like the easy way out. To believe that he was meant to be alive; to have a purpose, rather than accidentally created would be easy. It is easy, otherwise 95% of the world’s population wouldn’t believe in a superior being. Being a very logical person, he could not bring himself to believe that something such as a god created him, this world, and everything around him. It made no sense to him. What made the god? Something cannot be produced from nothing. He disliked desiring to believe in things that he knew would later be dismissed. He did not enjoy contradicting himself or others. What is life but a series of contradictions, he thought, not in the form of a question.

February 5

Never will we be able to solve the enigma of life; the power of our existence. The solution would most likely be death. The mild death of a saint, or the putrid death of a freak who was caught in the act of rage, the unofficial way to be protected from the endlessness of being in question. To think of everything as a final goodbye, a farewell that stays with all who desire. It is all who accomplish anything in this life who do not exist. Accomplishment is definitely impossible. A success is a diversion. Nothing can be done to faintly brisk the edge of a true success. Everything requires effort, effort we are not able to produce.

He deliriously awoke and descended the stairs to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it slowly. He liked the feeling of water running down his throat. The tiling on the floor was cold on his bare feet. He didn’t want to stay long.

Suddenly he heard someone descending the stairs. He knew who it was. Who else would it be? His father stumbled about, his equilibrium unusual. Anthony understood why. Nothing could hide such a prevalent stench. Such a fowl odor. Anthony was appalled. His father couldn’t resist his temptation. Even on a Sunday. Even on a Sunday. Anthony did not want to be in the presence of his drunken father, especially since his father failed to recognize his own son’s presence. Anthony swiftly made his way towards the door, grabbed his jacket and escaped the house.

The next day he found himself beneath the single birch tree of his forest. He didn’t remember going there. He opened his eyes slowly, as the light was a bit harsh. The world appeared blurry before him. Nothing quite in focus. The dulled world was refreshing, but quickly dissolved with blinking. His eyes widened as he saw what was in front of him.

“Hey, you all right?” A silhouetted voice whispered. He read the lips, moving in familiar patterns. He knew what this person was attempting to communicate despite his inability to hear the voice.

He was still surprised to find a human standing before him. It was a girl around his age. She was bent over, gloved hands on her knees staring directly into his weary eyes. She was a little too close. She smiled warmly, eyes now closed.

“I thought you would have heard me coming. The trees wouldn’t let me get here stealthily.” Her smile continued as she offered him her hand. He took it and she yanked him up with surprising force, startling him. His mouth was now somewhat ajar as he was presented with this new individual.

“The name’s Luna.”