unusual-and-vague-writing

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

We gather on the lawn. The bumblebees buzz in the dandelions in front of us.

The sun has a dent. It grows. We blind ourselves, blocking out all but the sun's kind glow. Forcing ourselves into a complete darkness where nothing but an orange sliver remains.

The sun's glow fades. Nothing is left, and there is only darkness. We unblind ourselves.

Where the sun once was, glowing darkness remains. Faint stars shine in the day. The bumblebees stop buzzing. Where has our fair lady the sun gone?

A picture does no justice. Our cameras are not meant to capture the strange foreign object. All we have is a collective memory of the minute long night.

We blind ourselves again. The sliver returns. Our fair lady the sun is returning. How we missed her! The bumblebees buzz in delight.

What a strange thing, to see darkness in the bright day. What a strange memory, of a glowing black sun.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

"Isn't physics difficult?"

Oh very.

"Its too abstract."

Correct.

"Why not do something else?"

....

Physics describes the composition and interaction of the universe. If you have lived in the universe, you would know it is very complicated. Many of its behaviors make little to no sense. Its bizarre, unknowable, and abstract.

So for something as big as the universe, something as unruly, something as complex, to be describable at all, isn't that remarkable?

Physics is difficult and abstract. But in its goal of describing the universe, it is remarkably simple.

What, did you think describing the universe would be easy?

Did you think it would always make sense?

Did you think that describing this unknowably infinite beast would be simple?

In that regard, of describing the universe, physics is remarkably simple. What, you can reduce fundamentals of life itself to mere equations? That's far too simple!

....

"Why study physics at all?"

Well, if I'm not going to get paid to sit on my ass and do nothing, the next best thing is to study the universe.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

I have spent years voiceless to all but very few. Above all, I want two words. Two words I can speak freely.

"Thank you."

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

"Why do the moths go to the light?"

"Well, they want to go to the moon."

"Why?"

"Why not? We went to the moon just because. Why couldn't a moth feel the same way?"

------------------------------------

A lone astronaut pilots a lunar module. He touches down on the surface of the moon. His comms connect, "we have landed." Cheers erupt from the other side.

The astronaut undoes his safety harnesses. He steps out slowly onto the strange rock's surface. His steps are meticulous, and slow.

"We're here buddy."

From his pocket, he produces a small container. He pops the lid off. Out flies a moth with a tiny space suit on. A marvel of engineering.

It flitters about, finding a bright star in the sky. It flies towards it, then stops. It found a brighter one. It flies towards that one, then stops. Even brighter.

It is so hard for a little moth to choose.

The astronaut slowly sits down as his winged companion flutters about. It grows tired, landing on its fellow astronaut's knee.

"Lot of lights, huh?"

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

All is forgiven.

That much is true.

And sins repeated

Are forgiven too.

That leaves us

With an unmistakeable flaw.

That there is no consequence

When forgiveness is law.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

Class is boring.

You barely slept.

Your head feels like a brick you have to hold up.

You are growing tired and weak.

But you keep fighting.

You are taking sparse notes.

You are barely paying attention.

But you are fighting.

....

It is a normal day in class.

You slept ten hours.

Your head feels like a bad of sand.

You can barely move your arms.

You are in a daze.

You begin to see things between your blinking.

You know they are not real.

Your eyes are just failing.

You are not taking notes.

You are not paying attention.

You try to read the board.

You can not make out a single word.

Your eyelids keep getting heavier.

Not here, not now, you think.

It doesn't matter.

Your body doesn't care.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

Curled up in a ball on the River Styx lay a man named John. John was 48, worked a boring office job, had two kids that were the light of his life, and a wife he could only seem to love more everyday.

That was ripped away from him on one sunny morning in May, when walking to his car to head home from work, he had a heart attack.

John, aged 48, was healthy. He went on walks everyday with his wife, and he maybe enjoyed a greasy burger now and then, but he should not have died.

John thought of his wife and children. Whether they knew by now of his unfortunate fate, or whether his wife was growing a little impatient as he was late for dinner.

The dead man lay curled on that boat, listening to the paddles hit the water. He was grieving himself, and mourning his life that was cut far too short.

The ferryman did not look back at the sorry soul curled into a ball and collapsing in on himself. The ferryman did this far too many time. As a bus driver takes the children to school, the ferryman takes the dead to... wherever the dead go.

After an agonizing who-knows-how-long, John sat up and looked at the water. It reminded him of fishing trips with his dad when he was young. As a boy, he would peer off the side of the boat and look for fish. As a dead man, he did the same.

There were fish. As far as John, a non-fisherman knew, these looked like normal fish. Trout, bass, and salmon swam about lazily in the River Styx. John thought about how bizarre it was that the fish did not realize they were in the waters of the damned. Then John remembered they were fish, and fish are rather stupid.

The boat halted to a stop. John steadied himself against the edge of the boat. The ferryman announced it was the final stop. John thought about getting off, and he did. After all, he was not sure he wanted to go to the actual final stop.

Maybe that is where the fish came from, though.

Before he had time to ponder this thought, the ferryman was gone. The dim light of the lantern that hung from the front of his boat dissapeared into fog. John looked down. There was grass. Odd, he thought, that grass should grow here. Then again, much like fish, grass is not known for being very smart.

John looked forward, away from the River Styx. Ahead of him was a statue of a woman, except the head was gone. He walked towards it, and found that it was not a statue, but a fountain. Murky water poured from her neck into a pool below. Inside the pool was a number of pennies. John fumbled around in his pocket, and found a penny as well. He threw one in, for good luck. It clattered against the other rusted change lining the bottom.

In fact, he could not see the bottom. It was thickly lined with pennies at various degrees of degradation. There must be a lot of passerby, he thought. Then he remembered he was dead. There are a lot of dead people.

Speaking of, where were the dead people? There was the ferryman, but the ferryman was not a person. Not as far as John could tell. The ferryman wore a robe that obscured his face, if he had one.

They must be further in, John thought.

Or I may get lost, John thought.

John had a lot of thoughts. Dead men tend to. There is not much else to do but think when you die.

John spent the next few years lost. In fact, he would spend the rest of his afterlife lost. After all, John is much like fish and grass and all those things that should not be there. He apologized to the fish, they may have known where they were swimming, but they had nowhere else to swim.

He missed the ferryman, his only companion for about 20 minutes. They too were kindred souls. Working a 9-5 job. Except instead of a cubicle, the ferryman had a boat on the lake of the damned.

He missed his family, most of all. His wife, his kids, his mom and dad. Even the in-laws. He never said goodbye. He never said goodbye to the ferryman either. John was bad at goodbyes. Much like grass, and fish. His two companions in this solemn world. Both were bad at conversation. What John would not give for awkward small talk with his coworkers.

He looked in the fountain. A few new pennies lined the bottom. A dollar in total, maybe. The headless woman would soon be rich. John was due for a raise as well. That would have been nice. Maybe he could have gotten a new dishwasher. The one he had was loud and barely worked. He wondered if his wife got it replaced with his life insurance, John hoped she did. He hated that damn dishwasher.

The grass never seem to grow. John was thankful for that. Of all aspects of being alive, the one he missed the least was mowing the lawn. It was always too hot, and exhausting. He liked this grass. It asked for nothing. Neither did John, not after the first few thousand years. There was no one to ask.

Of course there were the fish. He did not have a guide. So he made up names. That fish is called the Stripey Fish, that one is the Small Fish, that one is the Reddish-Orange fish. John was not very creative with name. Then again, neither were fish.

Bored yet? So is John. This is how he spends eternity. Fish, grass, fountain, and thinking about everything in a nothing way. Nothing he thought about had much meaning. It was all busy work, thinking. Another 9-5, though really it was 24/7.

You may ask what would happen if John went into the river, or fished for pennies. Would the water erode his skin? Would he turn into a fish? John got bored, as one does with all the time in the world, and tried. Nothing happened. It did not even feel like water. His clothes were dry, and he walked along the bottom. There was nothing.

The pennies were boring too. They fell out of his hands like a stick of butter if he tried to grab them. And he did try, for about 751 years. Though he had no way of knowing the time.

John, 48 years old, husband, father, has a lot to say. But the most important thing he says; death is boring.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

Her back has grown strong, her hands are calloused. Mother nature spends her life sculpting the earth, only to carry it on her back.

She smiles at her children, "Here! It is not finished, and that is your job. Paint it for me."

We are rough with our paintbrushes. Sometimes, we chip it. Mother Nature tells us it is okay, keep painting. The tapestries of artwork left by others take up precious space for our own. So, we paint over them. Mother Nature says, "Do be mindful of others work."

But soon the Earth is painted. The rivers have painted their tapestries, and the flowers ask if they can add some color. "Sure," says the river, "A few along the edge would look lovely".

We want a part too. "Can we paint a bridge?" We ask the river. "Sure," says the river, "but be mindful of the new flowers."

We paint over one or two flowers, but that is fine. Our bridge looks lovely.

"That means," we say, "we should add a road."

The river hesitates, but in that time a careless gray line is streaked over the flowers.

"That was fun," we say, "Let us paint more."

The Earth is left scarred by our strange gray lines. Buildings take over the delicate trees that took 50 years to paint. Mother Nature looks away. She wants to scold us, but it is too late. The air is filled with smog from our reckless painting. Many birds and bugs leave entirely, they no longer wish to paint. Even we start to paint over our own work. We get bored too easy.

"There," we say to Mother Nature, "We have painted your Earth."

Yet the paint is so thick, her careful craft has been buried.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

The storm has yet to pass. The worst is yet to come.

I am under by umbrella. But it only covers so much rain. So they give me two.

Now the wind has started and no one knows what to give me. I wander the street, clutching my umbrella or two or three. Maybe a fourth umbrella would help.

There are no houses on the sidewalk. No buildings. "Just go inside," some people tell me. I implore them to help me find a building.

My umbrella blows away. I run back to catch it. I am soaked from the rain. It was only a day without it.

My umbrella breaks. I have to pay for a new one. Will it cost 5 dollars, 300? Or will insurance cover it?

And yet people still tell me to just get inside. I tell them I can not. There are no buildings on my street. They call me lazy, they are frustrated. Why can't I just go inside?

Do they not realize there are no buildings? All I have are umbrellas.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

As Adelaide comes wandering

From her home beyond the sea

She whistles a tune of melancholy

But she whistles it with glee

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

At the start of the equinox

Death will rise from his grave

And show us mortals

Why we are named as such

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The universe is big. Really big. So big in fact, its unfathomable. Comparatively, you are small. A speck of dust.

I am just a speck of dust, and that is what makes life so beautiful.

Why would I want to be big? Or significant? Having a grand cosmic significance sounds awful! I can make a mistake and I won't blow up the solar system. I can screw up a thousand times and the world at large doesn't change.

And that brings me comfort. The universe doesn't care about me. So I get to live for the sake of living. I'll live without having any grand significance, and that's beautiful. I'm here just because I'm here. The universe doesn't give me a second thought. I can't stop the planets from spinning. So I just get to live.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

Log number [REDACTED]

This is Dr. [REDACTED]. Time of recording is [DATE REDACTED].

She's awake. Barely. She twitches sometimes. Vitals are steady. Brain activity has improved mildly from the previous log. It seems that Dr. [REDACTED]'s idea has some merit.

Would she have wanted this? I keep asking myself that question. But at this point its too late now. To stop our work would be cruel. But to continue feels cruel as well.

She'll tell us when she's awake. I'm afraid no one else will listen, however. We have spent so long looking at her like a puzzle to be solved, somedays I forget she is a human. I hope my colleagues will remember.

END OF LOG

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

Take a walk with me through the aviary. Look to your left. See the red bird up there? That's a cardinal. A male one, actually. Female cardinals are a dull brown.

Oh! And look right above that branch, that right there is a quetzel. Isn't it beautiful? Its where the feathered serpent Quetzlcoatl gets it name.

And down by the water are some swans. Mute swans to be exact. They're not as friendly as you'd think.

And that one is- Oh, what is it? The exit? No no no. The aviary is a sacred place. You don't get to leave. Not until judgement is passed.

That there? A Northern royal flycatcher. They're very- Hmm? My name? Don't worry about it.

Oh! Did you see that one fly right above you? That's- Oh for goodness sake what now? I told you. No exit. Wait. No, you can not break the glass. Its impenetrable.

Now we're almost at the penguins and- Fine, fine! Relax. Look, you know angels? How you humans talk about them. Right, that's just a misinterpretation of the aviary. What, the whole "be not afraid" ones with all the eyes and stuff? Some guy mistakenly ended up here and saw a peacock! Nearly died a second time!

What? No, I'm not an angel. Angels don't exist. People just see my birds and their memories get all jumbled up and they think they saw angels. Its a whole mess. I've made some formal complaints but nothing happens. Oh! You want to see some parrots? Follow me! Oh but before that, see the blue guy over there? A hyacinth macaw! Their beaks are crazy strong, they like to crack open nuts to eat.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

Where is the justice

In the sick in their cot?

Where is the reason

In smelling them rot?

As hymns cry out

For their crops to grow

I can't help but ask

Where did He go?

Give me a God who listens

Give me a deity who sings

Let me hear their whispers

As their gentle voice rings

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

Ah, to be a weird child.

An imagination runs wild as I sit on the floor. My stuffed animals are put into a world of war, love, and betrayal.

"No bear!" The iguana cries out in my mind, "Do not do this!"

"I must," The bear anguishes, "To save my people!"

I would spend hours crafting elaborate and emotional stories out of nothing. Give me a stick and a rock and I would have built a kingdom. I wish I had had a pencil and paper and written these stories down. But I never did. I hardly remember most of them.

But I still carry that strange talent for storytelling for myself. If I am bored and given nothing, I will look around the room and give its items life. The plant in the corner is now a forest. The fish tank is now an underwater village.

Ah, to be a weird adult.

[unusual-and-vague-writing]

Its probably not safe to walk alone down the alleyways. Despite the warnings, I still do it.

Why? Because back there, the walls are alive.

Who painted these walls? They didn't add their name. I'm not sure what it is supposed to be. A mixture of orange and blue and green scattered about in an almost haphazard way. Though it feels intentional.

Who is this man who's face is so delicately painted here? He looks somber yet content. It is a modern day Mona Lisa on the walls of the city. Artist unknown.

Cars are honking at each other. Angry, they want to get a move on. They don't stop and breathe for a moment. They take the roads to be a way to get from point A to point B. They never look past the paved highways at the buildings and the art between them.