Memory. It's a powerful word, that never seems to escape me, or my wandering mind. Memory. Of all the times befor the accident, before the blinking lights and strange tubes. Memories, of life before the coma.
I'm not sure how to describe the darkness that surrounds me, or the beeps and ticks that invade my ears. My mind always wanders, pictures flash before my sleeping eyes, songs play out old tunes in loops like broken records. I compose, paint, and write. Well, it's all in my head-I'm not crazy, just trying to pass the time. Oh, here comes another one now. An idea that played out across the universe of white and grey matter in my mind. Care to listen? I thought so.
The arctic. A treacherous, cold, lonely environment. Home to polar bears, Santa, and narwhals. But as I see it, this place, this desert, is home.
I'be been orphaned since the age of ten, have exactly twenty six tattoos arranged on my body and twelve piercings, each in a different place. They're memories of pain and suffering-every year until now. Got my eyebrow pierced for the second time. Well, it was that or my first drink, and there's plenty of that up here. I went down south for a pilot's jacket, hat and snow pants, much to the Village elder's annoyance. "Wear seal furs like our ancestors," he protested. "Not a chance," was my reply.
I could say a lot of things, but why bother? Silence is golden. Mea Culpa, Latin for my responsibility, or if you want to be cheeky, my bad. Carpe Diem, culus, time flies asshole. Latin was one of my better subjects, as boring as it was, until I dyed my hair pink, a colour for every A I got until my hair was a rainbow in protest of gay rights. Too bad it's still just pink.
The Inuit have eighty one names for snow, with syllables that roll off one's tongue like hard candy. God knows, I haven't learned a single one. A life long lesson I guess I'll never learn. Want to know another? Frostbite. Twice now, I've had it, and gone south like everybody else. Eh, Billy Joel?
And just like that, the memory, the idea fades to black. I've never been to the arctic, or taken latin. It's just here today, gone tommorow. My life is a series of snapshots and words, ideas and songs. Rather dull actually. I used to like historical fiction so this one drags along alot in my brain, whatever's left of it now.
My mistress nags about everything, even when the job is done, the beds are made, and Lady Anabelle is dressed. Anabelle's only sixteen, and I can't help but envy her, and everything she's ever had. Her younger brother Clive has a lazy eye but sometimes, I can't help but think that he fakes it. We kissed once, and-well, I kissed him. Fine, I'll be out with it, he liked it. There's no wrong in that is there?
Nobody has any idea how my life's been impacted. But I'm trapped, and can't tell the world a word. I'll get along just fine, I hope. I am at war with myself, with my thoughts, ideas, memories.
"I will call you up every saturday night and we'll both stay out till the morning comes. And we sang, here we go again"
A song with a title I can't remember. Damn. That always used to annoy me. Now the feeling is constant and I tolerate it mildly. My brother Arnie used to be able to name any song just by listening to the first few bars. I don't know where he is now, and quite frankly I don't care. Goodbye world, my social life, my independence, my music. Goodbye to you all.
