sleepydotclick
z
z
z
z
zz
z
zzzz
z
z
z
z
I don't worry about much. And when I stood on the summit, I succumbed to that pull, the unrelenting attraction of bodies to the earth, the crushing force of all things on the planet getting drawn towards that solid, slowly compacting ball of metal deep within our world. Everything must be drawn in eventually, all matter crushed into one continuous object with no more delineation between spaces.
That's what it means to not exist. It's an existence that encompasses all the matter, pressed so close together there's no longer a difference between one body and the other. Do you know, yet? Do you know what it means? I fell, I broke through the clouds as the ravens bore witness to this moving body, where movement was still possible because there was a difference between my outer flesh and the air molecules that parted to let me slip past. Some of them pummeled me, a frantic grab to slow me down, but they are small and few, and I am far denser and more stubborn than they.
I fell, and when I landed, I kept going and became a part of the earth. It's an act of defiance, of looking at the constant expansion of the universe and saying, fuck you, we'll all crush our bodies together and dare you to pull everything apart.
It's an act of maintaining balance, that equilibrium between constant expansion and constant compaction. Some of us have to look at the flow and throw ourselves against it so the rest of you lot can go about your lives without worrying about this minutia.
The room of dreams was a whim, a series of afterthoughts that strung together and started my house's long, slow climb up the side of the mountain. I needed to build, I needed to carve out something into that mountain, I needed something more to justify why I was there, so it started with a door. Someone left a door frame by the side of the road, and I didn't even think about what I was doing before I pulled over and heaved it into the bed of my truck. It was old cracked wood, dull teal paint that still clung on out of stubbornness, and hinges that refused to budge. Just that frame, no door, no walls, stood alone fifteen feet from the edge of the boiler room, straight up the side of the mountain. I staked it down and left it there, but before long, someone else brought me a door. It didn't fit; we made it fit with a little bit of hacksawing and hammering. It was orange. The hinges still didn't move, but at least the frame wasn't empty anymore.