dear all. last night I stumbled across a fellow proser's post that kept me reading long past i should! I am talking about @Jimlamb and his vietnam war memories.

so first, congratulations to you , Mr. Lamb for getting published. i read the excerpts from your book, and hope i'll be able to read more in the future. your memories of serving in the navy, and the vietnam war were eerily relatable, though i've not served in the navy and never even visited vietnam.

many stories and experiences you had and wrote about happened almost exactly the same to me.

but what really struck a chord with me is what you talk about in the end. the subject of closure. i think that closure, as a moment in time , where painful events in life suddenly become "sloved", is a historic mistake of the literary world, that infected the rest of humanity like s virus. some people appear to be immune to this bolderdash. perhaps it's because they've been through enough in their lives to know a lie when they see it.

i wish sonetimes that i had closure for a lot of things. or conversly, that i had that "immunity" for ever wanting it. there are many things that i regret, or i wish happened differently, so many relations with other people that could have been much better. but you can't undo things, and there are things that will forever leave their mark. like a scar. they will heal to the point that you will be able to function well, they will teach you a thing or three. but they will always be waiting, in one way or another to give you a reminder of the pain and regret you once felt deeply.

the details of how we came by our individual scars are varied and perhaps, on a some level , they are not so important (though they definitely are to those that carry them). what is very important is to see that everyone is a member in this club. we are all citizens of the nation of scars. everyone we meet has them, and it is up to us to find in ourselves this sameness. the scars, like a vast tuning fork, resonate to the right frequancy. the painful ringing that they cause can be absorbed and comforted, or they can erupt and discharge hatred.

this quaratine i'm in, is not easy. but the period that will come later will be much harder, I feel. people will lose loved ones, people will become desperate. many future-scars are being cut and bleeding right now. knowing this, we are left to rely on our past scars to cushion future ones. but of course if we find empathy to others, and get those inner scars throbbing, we can do something about it.

wow. i might have mixed up my similies, but i hope it works. ..

keep safe and stay strong and productive. and cudos to Jim Lamb again for his book!

As I lay dying, all words are unspoken while in my isolation I long to turn again, two hundred and eighty eight times. There was a season, I can't be expected to remember the hour, when I was wanted, revered, even celebrated habitually, by the masses in just about every corner of the world. I suppose the jubilation was most evident at my royal birth. Like a shiny object I was new, different, special, in my own way avant-garde. I imagine seeing all of them that loved me long ago cradling my healthy spine, holding me on their lap, staring at me pensively in wonder, touching me, unable to put me down. But that was then and this is now and like me, all things shall pass, grow old, collect dust, and become neglected, eventually turning into dust. Although I can sense my demise is on the horizon, I am still hopeful and not belittled, that is, as long as others like you come along and decide to revive me; then, I just may survive and embrace another wind. Either way it has been a good life, of this I am sure, and I owe all my success, my accolades to him. Along with the others, I am eternally grateful for his genius. Although he is long gone from this earth, wouldn't William Faulkner love to know I am still desired? Come. Pick me up off the shelf. Dust me off. Read me. Turn my two hundred and eighty eight pages one at a time. Keep me alive, As I Lay Dying.

Oh, there’s no way that I’d have known it. I was curious and really wanted to find out more about her. But I guess I’ll never know more of her story..........

I just sat down on a bench in the park, then I felt something watching me. When I looked around, there was nobody in sight.

It was only after a short while, someone seemed to be right by my side of the bench. I was quite startled with fright.

There was something off that I could not figure out at first. Well, the main thing that did bother me was that she was hiding her eyes.

I was curious to find out what she had come to do in the park. For me~ spending some time with the trees, and listening to the birds music- was why I liked visiting the park.

She looked away and I thought I heard her crying. The minute I reached my hand to console her, she turned her head and the last thing I remember was seeing her beautiful and frightening violet eyes.

#VIOLET

21 March, 2020.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Y88LVU7MAe4

.

No one can tell, when two people walk closely together,

what unconscious communication one mind

may have with another.

- Robert Barr

She walks in. Four bare walls, white paint. No furniture, just honey wooden floors and a light slipping through a window. The door behind her closes, a key turns, and there is only silence left to embrace this mind. She breathes out. What now? Not knowing what to do, she does the one thing that always makes her calmer, she counts. Four walls, two windows, one door. One guard outside. Ten small steps from the center of the room, and eight big steps to the door. Moving to the window, she gazes outside. A big oak tree grows right next to it. It’s late summer, but both the door and the windows closed, and the air inside stuffy. Sweat drips down her forehead and the small of her back.

Your thoughts are melting, darling.

The windows haven’t got bars, but then again why would they. It’s the third floor and she would kill herself if she decided to jump. They know she had a fear of heights. Her hands roll into fists and she keeps counting. The tree has about six meters, four big branches, seven middle ones and...

Loud, loud, loud.

You brake.

Something snaps and she starts to sob, her chest heaving, back trembling. Her whole body shaking.

How will she get out? What was there to do?

The young woman hides a face in her hands and puts her head against the wall. Tears staining the white paint. Isolation surrounds you, nothing else. Face it, they have you, again. Suddenly the lock in the door clicks, and someone turns the key. Her back straightens, just like a pained line made of smooth iron, as she wipes the tears away and turns around. Suddenly the weak creature from a moment ago turns into solid rock. Hard as granite. Her arms crossed, dignity masking everything else. A man walks in, holding a plastic tray; his face showing no emotions. There is a gun strapped to the side of his belt. It doesn’t seem that he wants to use it. Just a precaution. Watch out for her, she can be a problem. Don’t underestimate her. She flinches, hearing his thoughts but tries to hide it.

The man puts down the tray and leaves. The key turns. She exhales, sits on the ground, eyes moving to the food. Two pieces of bread, one bowl of soup, a glass of water, eight small steps to the tray. She feels nauseous but crawls to it on her knees. Her deep blue dress with sleeves that cover her arms isn’t too long, so the wood scrapes the skin, grazing the knees that have already been damaged before. She doesn’t even notice.

The wounds that cover you, don’t just touch your body.

Don’t they, little girl?

Just keep counting. Distractions were the things that kept her going, pushing insanity away to the farthest corner. Seven floorboards to reach the food, three splinters in her skin so far. She grabs the bread, quickly eats it and drinks it down with water; not trusting the mushy clay matter that pretends to be nourishment for her body.

After over an hour - 3758 seconds of silents and stuffy air, over 62 minutes of dark thoughts sinking into her oversensitive brain. 4 quarters of self-pity mixed with intense panic. A vast amount of tears now soaked into her clothes and skin. One expression of indifference as the door opens, with one camera above that door.

A woman in a lab coat enters, a pad and paper in hand. She moves some documents on it and scrunches her eyebrows together. Not even looking up, a man walking behind her. It’s the same one that brought her food. She knows the woman, another one of the doctors that were taking care of her - a pretty way of saying, holding her against her will when she was no longer cooperating. She looks to the doctor; long blond hair tied into an elegant ponytail. A slim, tall figure, about 5′8 in height, wears low heels. The woman starts to read as if she was all alone in the room.

Adria Morgenstein. Age 26. Has the ability to infiltrate the human mind. Abnormal brain waves limited, skills having the best result in a near range, up to twelve meters. It can influence other people to change decisions if physical touch is possible or the receiver is in bad mental health or shows a predisposition to the power of suggestion.

Dr. Clarkson, they are waiting for you.

Yes, yes, in a moment.

But doctor...

Silence, let those fools with thick wallets wait a couple of minutes. Some things should not be rushed. Now leave, I shall be with you shortly.

The man walks out, and the two women are left alone. Silence fills the room once more. Doctor Clarkson looks up, her expression not showing anything.

Ah, Galilea. I hear you have been misbehaving. It saddens me deeply to see you in such a state.

My name is Adria. I told you not to call me like that.

It’s the name listed in your files, but not the one that you were born with. We checked, trust me. But then again, you already know that.

It was chosen for me first, but I chose for myself.

Yes, always the rebel. If you chose to listen more to others, we wouldn’t even be here.

I won’t be a toy in your game or a lab rat that you can take tests on. Just a matter of time before you open up my brain, and see which cables were working and which were burned.

Honestly, why all the dramatic manner. We are all grown-ups here and I, my dear, do not mean to hurt you.

My mind and body would argue with that.

I roll up my sleeves and show her the purple and green bruises that are near my veins, then I lift the light brown hair that goes to my shoulder blades, and show her my neck. Two burned-out holes still sensitive, that throb whenever I shift my head.

You were being unwise, Adria.

She adds extra tones to the name, causing my skin on my back to crawl like a tortured animal in agony.

We had to make sure you wouldn’t be a danger to anyone.

Now that’s bullshit, you just did it sooner because I wasn’t all meek and submissive like you assumed at first. Everyone has their limits, doctor.

Her stare is cold as it drops to her board. She nods a couple of times and scribbles something down.

You are absolutely right. That’s why I am going to tell Adam to change your medication dose. We wouldn’t want you to be too untamed and misbehaving again. You caused some members of your stall quite the headaches. I felt very troubled by it.

She stares at me from under her glasses and slowly walks up. I stumble back and smack my back against the wall. The doctor smiles politely and takes out a needle from her lab coat. I flinch and her smile spreads. I see the light bounce off the thick needle, as I slide myself to the right. What they did to me before really weakened me. Both my mental powers and my physical strength. I couldn’t defend myself properly and I was on lockdown. My eyes stare at the sharp metal and widen in surprise, as the doctor lifts her sleeve and sinks the needle with a satin grey liquid onto her flesh. The sharp object disappearing into the inner side of her elbow.

I gasp. She doesn’t seem to be bothered. The woman puts everything back into her pocket and stares at me. There is something strange in her eyes and it looks like she is waiting. A couple of minutes pass as we just stand there, none of us really moving - I can feel my clothes turning damp from the sweat, and I feel sick. The doctor looks at her watch and seems to be pleased. She grabs my forearm expectantly. My body tenses as I automatically try to send out my psychic voice message. They’re not even words, more like a silent order or a plea. My thoughts roundup in a shape only I see and hit her. It’s a warning. Stay away from me, let go. Now.

Nothing happens and my body slowly slouches, feeling defeated. They made another drug to test on me, and this time it worked. They’re making progress. But as stubborn as I was, I try again and again - what a naive attempt. My thoughts reach her but then bounce off a mental wall, that the drug supplied. The doctor nods satisfied and let’s go. I slide against the wall and land on the ground, feeling so tired. They already took so much of me, and I felt defenseless as a newborn. Never before did I use my abilities to harm anyone, but today I wish the situation was different - but instead, I couldn’t even protect myself, feeling the whole world crashing on me at once. My chest covered by a big rock, enabling me to breathe, body seeming to sink helplessly. Only then do I notice that the doctor used another needle, this time on me. I sink deeper, but before I collapse completely, her voice penetrates my mind.

Such a dramatic nature, as if she never had any tests before. You would think that after all this time, you would learn something. Try to sleep Galilea, maybe then you won’t cause any more trouble.

Her voice is patronizing and dripping with dislike. As if her personal guinea pig wasn’t doing a good job, not meeting the expectations. My fingers clench and my brain opens up like a plant, slowly - anger making me stronger - tiny vines stretching out and moving forward, a million green leaves made of thoughts vibrating and growing, covering the space between us. Blooming with a new craving.

The vibrations in the room change and the woman stumbles, almost tripping. She clears her throat, trying to hide the embarrassment, probably thinking that in fact, she had just tripped. The door opens followed by a sound of a single click, and then a turned key. Finally, absolute silence. Her body shifts and drops numb. She lays flat on the wooden floor sinking but manages to lift the sides of her mouth. They haven’t destroyed her just yet.

to be continued...

_____

Photo credit : Taya Ivanowa

...

Before we get old

I want to live in your arms

entirely soaked under your folds.

While you breath the oxygen,

I inhale your fragrance

to keep my lungs crowded

because I want my love directed

only towards your soul.

I want your beats

to be my orchestra

where my strings vibrate

under the influence of your tunes.

Before we get old

I want to make you learn

that love is not an obssession

but a dedication in submission to one's soul.

...