Don’t be in much of a rush, my friend. This is going to be a long and terrible journey. Nobody told you that you were leaving, but you don’t have much of a choice.
But where are we going? I couldn’t say. Not because I don’t want to tell you; I do, believe me, but because I don’t know either. Somebody else, no name, gave me this same speech. It was another time, the exact amount ago I don’t remember. Not important considering I’m still on my way to wherever I’m going, and you’re just becoming conscious of where you’re going. No, this isn’t the beginning, because you’ve always been journeying towards this. I’m still pondering over what the nature of our destination is. Is it a place? A state of mind or feeling? A new plane of existence? Maybe it’s something like all three, some kind of insubstantial…thing that our minds can’t comprehend. Maybe, but maybe not. It wouldn’t make much sense to travel all the way to something that we ultimately cannot understand, but logic, the bastard, has never had much use for either of us. He only made us think we had some control over our journey, tricked us into believing he existed. Ah! That was his greatest trick—logic, the devil— making us believe he really existed. He pulled it off by telling us it “made sense” to believe in him; if you didn’t you were a moron because you were irrational.
Ah, but it seems more pointless still to be angry about a nonexistent concept. We don’t have a lot of time, but there’s still plenty. If we’re going to walk together, I think we’d better have a lot to say to each to each other, though you’re being peculiarly silent.
The silence, not unusual. Life in the world comes across as such a deafening experience by the way others describe it. No noise, though. The brain certainly wants it. If no noise penetrates the ears, the brain will make it itself. Pure silence, man knows of no more intense event. I don’t know this for a fact, but I’ve heard that the moment before a person dies, there is no sound. Just a formless, silent void. That would make sense, for what good is sound when you’re dying? Am I dying now? My god, you’re silent.
Good Christ, I know you’re not listening. I am not a stupid man, but I certainly wish I was. I could fool myself into thinking there’s an open ear here somewhere.
Are you hearing me?
Are you hearing me?
Are you?
Are you?
Nothing I can do, I suppose. Once a person refuses to see you, you can’t possibly exist. Dead things, things that don’t exist anymore, they have no reentry into existing. Being is a one time deal, friend. It looks like my one time is up. There’s no room for an extra soul in there, it seems. Not always a bad thing, though. Existence has a lot of limits, comfortable ones. But nothingness, there are no limits to that but existence. Existence is then, but a chain. Hah! I imagine that thought frightens you. I think you’d cry in terror if you could hear, much less understand what I’m saying. My pleasure in this doesn’t lie in your terror, but your understanding. Then I’d have the satisfaction of knowing I was understood. To be understood! The sublime romantic dream of man. It never crosses anyone’s mind that understanding, of any kind, is a dollar bill hanging too high above our heads. Too much to understand, too little time and too few resources. Hell, you can’t even understand what I’m saying. But that hasn’t been a problem so far, and I’m not expecting it to become one. No reason to worry about if you’re comprehending me, because I know you aren’t, because you aren’t even listening! Shit, you are stubborn! I’m not up to the challenge of breaking you down.
Nothing to do, nothing that can be done. See me, see out there, don’t see much of anything. You, you are the out there. Me, I am the in here. Me, the in here looking at the out there. The out there, looking at nothing, thinking about nothing. The you, which is nothing. The me, which is nothing, but a different nothing. The other, other. I am not the other, because I am the in here, which is me, so I cannot be the out there, the other. But the other is still there, the in here’s eyes sees the out there, somewhat. There is a vague likeness which appears to be outside of me, in here, and it’s out there, where you are. And I’m thinking all this while the out there cannot think of anything. But there is nothing to think of. There is nothing to think of, think about, think upon, think into. Only things to turn into, things to become, things to envy since I stay the same. I am what I feel and I stay the same. I change, and remained unaltered. I am affected, and I remain in here. Nothing. Think nothing, become nothing, expect nothing. Walk, one step, back step, front, remain at start. Fuck, fuck nothing, fuck everything, fuck myself, fuck something. No, no progress, sit back, no movement.
Feel
something.
Move
somewhere. Become
nothing.
Remain
the
same.
If anything turns out a certain way there is a kind of movement in the way I speak but I finish and remain in the same spot dear god I am not moving and there is nothing moving me no prime mover anywhere none to speak of. None to speak of. Falling off the edge of the planet I still see myself back in this dark spot with a single lamp with a shorted plug good god there is nothing to plug with but yes I see that I can erk some light from it if I can just repair the cord but it cannot be fixed by me I have no knowledge of cords they are not my place the cord is fucked and the light is fucked and thus I am fucked because I am blind in here without the lamp good god no lamp maybe I find a different source but why look that cord will snap too and I’ll keep ending up in this blind spot not hope stubbornness not light a dream of light no good lamp I still have to dream good Christ I am stuck to the surface of the planet no way off except to croak but it’s too dark in here to croak too dark out there to move too far the in here stuck stuck in here with itself me the in here stuck in here with myself the in here the out there not listening not caring not feeling not thinking nothing nothing nothing fucking hell I am trapped and alive in a dark space not a room cannot see walls but feel them but they are invisible the out there is a wall many walls all walls they will not move not even moving in remaining static they have given space and will not give more or take any they only remain unseen unknown fail those inside fail not even better you fail you fail and there is no worse or better so you fail and you fail by yourself your failure is yours because you cannot fail for anyone and cannot fail anyone everyone fails themselves they are no means to gain anything because nothing is gained by anything you get something and then it disappears when it’s going to because it is not you and you are the only constant perhaps even the walls are not as alive as you in here the you is in here because the you I scream to is me I am not in here but I am always in here
I
Am
Always
In
HERE
Always in here there is no way out because there is no out I am here or I am nowhere I am in here so somewhere maybe
Connor Stratman is a writer currently living in Chicago. His fiction, poetry, essays, and book reviews have appeared in The Toronto Quarterly, The Journal of Experimental Fiction, ditch, Tusitala, Collage, and The Midwest Book Review. Some of his poetry will be published in the forthcoming issue of Bird’s Eye reView.
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