Entry tags:
An honest lie.
As if one should complain.
Does she know the weight of such things? Waking from a self induced coma can be quite a shock as flashbacks of something rather left forgotten come tumbling into his mind. He knew he shouldn't but he had to ask, to speak. Only if testing the walls of his new found environment. It should have been known already that a trapped animal will explore the limits of its cage. And to hopefully validate this new found consciousness with others of experience.
"So this IS reality" he thought to himself.
Although his mind was elsewhere, it was quickly snapped back to the situation at hand. In his ward room, he saw movement. It was a fuzzy rodent making haste along the floor. Thoughts of the rat being killed by a mousetrap came into sharp focus. Nobody likes a dirty rat in a sterile environment. Without much thought about it, he rose to his feet and with swift and decisive blow, slayed the rat himself. Dead. No need to create extra work for the kind staff at the ward, besides half the women would go hysterical and start screaming bloody murder if they ever saw it. Better that he just keep the lid on that. Settling back down, he rests assured that despite the seriousness of the experience, rodents are best left out of the situation entirely. It was time to heal. It was time to focus.
He knew that despite his memory loss, juxtaposed pieces of his puzzle remained. With a price paid in pain, silver and time, he knew he had to find the corners. Once you find the corners, the puzzle begins to build itself. Then things will come into perspective. The only problem was, he didn't own the box for the puzzle... so the pieces were all over and he had no idea what the finished piece was supposed to look like.
"Go figure"
Sifting through pieces, he was suddenly alarmed at a realization. His art, his poetry... left stagnate and dusting... it was trying to tell him things. The music he wrote was more like dejavu than conscious effort. The pictures he manifested, more like time stamps than impressions...
"Great Scott" he thought.
It's two puzzles mixed in with one and a picture of neither.
His brow furrowed as he half whispered, half prayed "Don't worry. It's just a song about a puzzle... a time stamp".
Does she know the weight of such things? Waking from a self induced coma can be quite a shock as flashbacks of something rather left forgotten come tumbling into his mind. He knew he shouldn't but he had to ask, to speak. Only if testing the walls of his new found environment. It should have been known already that a trapped animal will explore the limits of its cage. And to hopefully validate this new found consciousness with others of experience.
"So this IS reality" he thought to himself.
Although his mind was elsewhere, it was quickly snapped back to the situation at hand. In his ward room, he saw movement. It was a fuzzy rodent making haste along the floor. Thoughts of the rat being killed by a mousetrap came into sharp focus. Nobody likes a dirty rat in a sterile environment. Without much thought about it, he rose to his feet and with swift and decisive blow, slayed the rat himself. Dead. No need to create extra work for the kind staff at the ward, besides half the women would go hysterical and start screaming bloody murder if they ever saw it. Better that he just keep the lid on that. Settling back down, he rests assured that despite the seriousness of the experience, rodents are best left out of the situation entirely. It was time to heal. It was time to focus.
He knew that despite his memory loss, juxtaposed pieces of his puzzle remained. With a price paid in pain, silver and time, he knew he had to find the corners. Once you find the corners, the puzzle begins to build itself. Then things will come into perspective. The only problem was, he didn't own the box for the puzzle... so the pieces were all over and he had no idea what the finished piece was supposed to look like.
"Go figure"
Sifting through pieces, he was suddenly alarmed at a realization. His art, his poetry... left stagnate and dusting... it was trying to tell him things. The music he wrote was more like dejavu than conscious effort. The pictures he manifested, more like time stamps than impressions...
"Great Scott" he thought.
It's two puzzles mixed in with one and a picture of neither.
His brow furrowed as he half whispered, half prayed "Don't worry. It's just a song about a puzzle... a time stamp".