Mersennus1951
Mystic
Hi there. I wanted to leave one of my short stories here to get your thoughts on it. Obviously, I'm open to any kind of critique or feedback you want to share. Best regards:
"NOTE FOR AN OBLIVION"
The red recording light confirms that the camera is still on. It blinks with the rhythm of a flickering heart, and its pulse anchors me here, in this room, under this angle of view. I see myself on the screen in the background, in the tilted mirror on the wardrobe, in the polished curvature of the doorknob. There are eyes everywhere, all of them my own reflections, multiplied by the surfaces of the room. As I write these lines, I know I am being watched. I can imagine the cold spectrum of the images being transmitted to hundreds of screens: on a security monitor in a store and during the commercial break on the television of someone dining alone. I am sure I can state that in this room I find no risk of, well, it is better that I do not remember...
When I now go out to the street, which I do only occasionally, to confirm that I can still feel the sun caressing my skin, I am careful to attract attention. I stop in front of shop windows, walk past rows of cameras, and initiate small incidents to draw attention: a dropped book, a public call, or a look too long at the sky. The reason does not matter; I am only interested in the very act of being noticed.
These are my clumsy attempts to resist the pull of oblivion. But one cannot fight nothingness. It would be a mistake to think that nothingness is animate: that it waits, that it lurks, that it wishes to devour what is so tenuous here. I need to verify that I am only a series of reflections, chained to infinity, with no beginning and no end.
What we call being seen is an error of the brain, a distortion that takes the shape of a form. The eye that watches me is the same eye that denies me. It cannot see me; it only traces the outline of a figure that insists on being recognized. The camera is enough only while it repeats that error: it fixes me to the screen for a few moments more.
And if no one saw me, then what? I have been there before. I have felt what it means to be unseen like no one before me. It was at dawn, years ago. I opened my eyes and the darkness was perfect, sealed and without escape. There was no sound. I lay there, waiting for some proof of my existence, but nothing arrived. I had no witnesses.
I touched my face, but it felt as if my hands were those of another person. Panic strangled me. I stretched out my arms, tried to recognize the texture of the sheets, but above all I felt the anguish of the floor if I dared to get out of bed and stand up. But I knew, without even trying, that there was no floor, that there was no space because there was no longer a self to hold on to.
I recognize that the day will come when nothing remains to hold on to, not even my own reflection. Therefore, the last trace of my existence I leave in these words. And if by chance, or a whim of fate, this note falls into your hands, you will know that there was a moment in which I breathed.
"NOTE FOR AN OBLIVION"
The red recording light confirms that the camera is still on. It blinks with the rhythm of a flickering heart, and its pulse anchors me here, in this room, under this angle of view. I see myself on the screen in the background, in the tilted mirror on the wardrobe, in the polished curvature of the doorknob. There are eyes everywhere, all of them my own reflections, multiplied by the surfaces of the room. As I write these lines, I know I am being watched. I can imagine the cold spectrum of the images being transmitted to hundreds of screens: on a security monitor in a store and during the commercial break on the television of someone dining alone. I am sure I can state that in this room I find no risk of, well, it is better that I do not remember...
When I now go out to the street, which I do only occasionally, to confirm that I can still feel the sun caressing my skin, I am careful to attract attention. I stop in front of shop windows, walk past rows of cameras, and initiate small incidents to draw attention: a dropped book, a public call, or a look too long at the sky. The reason does not matter; I am only interested in the very act of being noticed.
These are my clumsy attempts to resist the pull of oblivion. But one cannot fight nothingness. It would be a mistake to think that nothingness is animate: that it waits, that it lurks, that it wishes to devour what is so tenuous here. I need to verify that I am only a series of reflections, chained to infinity, with no beginning and no end.
What we call being seen is an error of the brain, a distortion that takes the shape of a form. The eye that watches me is the same eye that denies me. It cannot see me; it only traces the outline of a figure that insists on being recognized. The camera is enough only while it repeats that error: it fixes me to the screen for a few moments more.
And if no one saw me, then what? I have been there before. I have felt what it means to be unseen like no one before me. It was at dawn, years ago. I opened my eyes and the darkness was perfect, sealed and without escape. There was no sound. I lay there, waiting for some proof of my existence, but nothing arrived. I had no witnesses.
I touched my face, but it felt as if my hands were those of another person. Panic strangled me. I stretched out my arms, tried to recognize the texture of the sheets, but above all I felt the anguish of the floor if I dared to get out of bed and stand up. But I knew, without even trying, that there was no floor, that there was no space because there was no longer a self to hold on to.
I recognize that the day will come when nothing remains to hold on to, not even my own reflection. Therefore, the last trace of my existence I leave in these words. And if by chance, or a whim of fate, this note falls into your hands, you will know that there was a moment in which I breathed.