View Full Version : The Sky At Night

the dave
08-15-13, 08:04 PM
Begun writing this after I received my report for ADHD-I from the doctor.
Its just the possible beginnings of something.
Quite brief, hardly a short story- needs a little more direction, ironic given the subject matter. And some embellishment.

(The Sky At Night) / Working Title?

If you were a horse, they’d shoot you.
Said to the doctor to the patient.
-Might as well have done.
The diagnosis was rather brief,
and morbid.
It constituted a series of hazy details, each ascribed a bullet point in his mind.

The prognosis, was essentially: he was no good- theoretically... he was able to push a button, of course not literally. They have machines to do that-- the metaphorical equivalent.
His shelf life was less than a can of value beans on the supermarket shelf, and his bills were higher than the price to repair the damage from the leaky roof, precipitated by years of neglect.

His mind was more shriveled than the peaches in his fruit bowl, slightly less overgrown than the months of stubble and limp strands of hair that fell down by the sides of temples without resistance.
Which ironically had been his choice.

He had been x-rayed all his life, under surveillance not only by CCTV cameras but also by their eyes, they could trace an imprint of his personality- he was clearly another textbook case, an article of the aforementioned. Shelved in an academic’s personal library.
Of course, he wanted this- it helped, it contained an essence of vindication; but it still hurt.
Everything that heals hurts.

The question now was,
where do we go to now-- and where are we coming from?
The voices of confused decision said, in stuttered harmony.
In ruined temple-cum-auditorium that was his mind.

Yet it was of course, already dark and the light of the moon was obscured by clouds-
tonight he decided to stay in, rather than roam the streets and expose his mind to the imperfect mirror that was the figurative gutter.

He figured he would leave the reader guessing, and see if they would return to their life of self-indulgent masturbation. Like he did so many times.
The road of ambition, is long. He was even unsure of the destination, let alone how to get there.

He recalled a summation of his adventures, like dogeared pages of a dusty tome.
One of hazy excursions in muddled streets, they fell away amongst a smear of days- preceded and encapsulated by the artificial light of the night.

He recalled how he had wanted to view the necropolis perched up above in all its vultural essence, surveying the city below.
Which said it all really, and given what they had wanted to do at night- was actually quite appropriate.

He didn’t realize it, but all these events- even non-events would shape him, every subliminal occurrence would brush by and leave some part of it in his psyche.
Led him back here, to port looking out to the deep dark ocean and pondering the notion of embarking on another voyage, without a navigator.

He considered himself an artist, but at best he was akin to a sculptor who would make statues and constructions out of junk, or whatever he could find.
An artist on the verge, an entrepreneur not out of choice.
He was the essence of dichotomy, each striding in a separate direction; and each divided further like a virus- until he was a nervous jittering caricature of his potential. As was described in all his school reports.

His restless energies were beginning to peter out until he was just syncopation binding skin, mute and discoloured, breath a stutter.
And yet he knew it was there, the ember that craved oxygen- of the campfire that hadn’t gone out, still burning in his head; lit by the caveman who wandered off somewhere near the junction off the dual carriageway.
Who he felt had more in common with him than the ones who worked in the hairdressers, who would tomorrow cut off his scruffy mane.

And he would embark again, to bring back tales of his ventures to the listening void.
He would await their call on the morrow.