reunion

So I’m on holiday!  YAY!  And, therefore, I haven’t uploaded anything.  Boo, and that.  It just so happens that I have found a few spare minutes and some material that hasn’t been uploaded yet.  So, dear ones, please enjoy a holiday of your own, a holiday into someone else’s head.  I would tell you to enjoy, but, well…

Second part now available here

REUNION

I guess the one that talks the most is a blonde. Not that blondes talk more than other people (they do), it’s just that she has a blonde sort of voice. I can’t understand a word she’s saying, though; the quality of her voice comes through, but the actual words are more like the warble of an exotic bird. Just as unintelligible is the gruff one, the man who puts me in mind of Hugh Jackman – an actor who, for some reason, I always picture de-shirted.

If I ever get out of here, and assuming I remember everything, I have to tell the world what it was like. Or perhaps not; after all, I’m not the first person to end up like this. But why shouldn’t my experiences be just as important as theirs? They may even be unique. That’s an interesting thought: perhaps everyone – every car crash victim, every drunkard who falls down the stairs, every person who gets so old that even their blood can’t work properly – every single person has their own personal purgatory. Or maybe we’re all in it together and we’d see that if we could only open our eyes.

It’s all this second-guessing that will drive me mad in the end, I’m sure. Before I came here I had a very clear opinion, but now I always have at least two, and they never line up. From the moment they wheeled me in, my perspective has been slowly shattering, crawling apart in ragged fragments that reflect a hundred more. It will be madness that gets me, but there’s only me here. Like one of those an ancient Greeks, I am trapped in a cycle of punishment. I am going to drive myself mad.

From time to time, strange memories will flash up in my head, unwished-for private broadcasts that play themselves out in high-definition and repeat and repeat, and I will be forced to interrupt my debates and watch them. I’ll give you an example from this morning:1

It was about this smartphone I got last year; a brand new Samsung, the latest model straight from the factory. One day, the back-light wouldn’t work, and the next day it didn’t function at all. I spent a few fruitless minutes jabbing the keys and scratching my head – it was brand new, for Christ’s sake. There was nothing wrong with it.

It was no problem, though; I simply told them who I was, and my secretary had their package on my desk by lunch the next day. That is one very great advantage of being me: if you need something done, it is done. If you say something is blue, no-one will tell you that it is turquoise. The amount of money I have makes people eager to protect it; that is the pattern of my life. I am forever attempting to be extravagant with my income while the world rushes around my feet, making sure I receive impeccable value.

If I were a poor man, I expect it would be the opposite. I would spend my life trying to hold on to my meagre earnings and the rest of the world would be trying to take it from me. I would be a miser, sitting in my tiny house and breathing icicles for fear of the heating bill. The only food I could afford would ruin my health and the only car I could afford would cost me hundreds of pounds more in maintenance; over a lifetime, thousands.

I have just realised that the image in my head of myself as a poor man is actually of Ebenezer Scrooge, and the realisation desiccates me. I used to think my imagination was a huge and ever-expanding universe of creativity, something that set me apart from other people, but now that I’m here I think that my brain is not a spring but a scrapheap. My attempt to be intelligent and interesting has resulted in Victorian imagery and the residue of an article I once read on socio-economic injustice.

My God. Is it possible that I’ve never had an original idea? Not one? I’m supposed to be the master but I’ve been dancing on strings all along, just like everyone else. I’d laugh if I could.

1. Actually, I have no idea when it happened; I can’t look at my wristwatch, there is no sun, I’m sure I’m not sleeping regular hours. My timings are, therefore, approximations, for which I apologise in advance.

4 thoughts on “reunion

  1. “From time to time, strange memories will flash up in my head, […] that play themselves out in high-definition […] and I will be forced to interrupt my debates and watch them.”
    Described perfectly what I experience every day.
    Curious for the next part!

    Like

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