FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH SPIN SPIN SPIN
The stairwell is a descending letter L, crooked and droopy. When I think of an object that droops, I imagine it being limp, lifeless even. This is a jagged droop, though, like half opened scissors in a pocketknife.
ASIDE: A pocketknife is not practical in dire situations if you do not have long fingernails.
I am sitting on a leather couch. It is red, but faded, easily mistaken for maroon or a light brown. I have room for two more, but I greedily decide to sprawl out. While examining the building internally, I can see its pulse. Even when we sleep, we breathe, and this building is no different. Its heart pounds, and blood pulsates through its walls. The chambers are still, but they digest everything consumed within the last hours of their consciousness. I can hear it. I can see it. If only I could feel it, perhaps my heart and belly would start moving in a different rhythm.
My brain is abandoned all too often. It thinks incessantly, but rarely about its self. Now is different, and so it wonders, Self, why do I not fixate on my own being? Aside from rarities such as now, why is this building directing me? To my brain's own knowledge, there will be no answer. If it thought like it generally plays chess, it would have known this ahead of time. However, it persists, When do I truly know things ahead of time? When does any brain? We can guess, we can predict, but I do not think we can know. See? I do not even know if I can know! In its world - my own mind - it is satisfied with its own answer to its own rhetorical question. Now I can think about the other members again. Hello, Heart. Hello, Belly. How do I start?
to be continued...
- Alexander McCurdy