The Awakening (non-sports) - Part 2

Day 2

A journal, it’s funny. I never thought I’d be the kind of person that kept a journal, or even pressed a pen to paper when my paycheck didn’t directly command it. Yet, as the world has moved on, and left me to spin in its wake, it’s what I have turned to. Have I adapted in a shallow attempt to save my sanity, in what amounts to holding a conversation with myself (an odd method to sanity, to say the least), or am I not who I used to be? Does the answer matter?

Whether we come across circumstance via happenstance, insistence of plan, or a yielding to the unseen hands of fate…does it matter? Does the route to a destination matter? Or, is it only the circumstance, the end, itself which retains significance?

As darkness once again promises to steal this day from me, I find the urge to tell you the beginning, or at least how the world transitioned to what it has become, how the conversion worked, but I’ll put that away for another day. Instead, I’ll let my mind wonder the environment it is now confined to.

Though a protest wells in me, like a tear near cresting the eyelid only to be blinked into submission, I say that I am the only one left. Everything about that statement rings false, but who am I to argue with my tangible senses. There is no decay, no stench, no sounds of life, no near silence of death and the chaos of life it brings, no anything. Seeing nothing, I can only assume, and my assumption is that I am alone.

One thing, you could call it a shine, glistens for my attention within every passing day. This was not something I could label with any quickness, but once it clicked, it was everywhere. Think of buying a car. You think you’re the first one in your area to get a specific model; you buy it, and over the next weeks notice it everywhere. The originality of the idea was based solely in ignorance. Once the awareness was born, it could not be erased.

I’ll digress for just a moment. Please forgive my meanderings. As I’ve said, I don’t write this to chronicle what happened here to whoever may find this, should that ever occur, but to keep myself engaged in moving on. Today I actually found that I looked forward to coming back here and sliding myself through the pen to be, well, not immortal, as paper and ink do fade, but sustained beyond my own mortality. Perhaps, years down the line, I’ll read my own story with a faint senility that will make the words come as new experiences accompanied by a greater understanding, rather than as memory.

So, I must apologize to my future self, forgive my ramblings.

That thing, which I realized, and cannot undo, as I see it everywhere, is a lack of dust or aging. Without life or movement, the world has somehow staved off becoming stagnant. As it all slips further and further from use, it somehow remains kept and alive. As I mentioned yesterday, it seems impossible to become comfortable here, perhaps this is part of the reason why. Days do not seem new, but reused.

It’s like everyone could return at any moment.