365 Days of Creativity
day ninety
The Vanishing
I am not on drugs.
I am not insane.
I am not imaginary.
These three sentences I must repeat to myself constantly, for it is only my believing them that makes them true.
It was fun at first, when everyone disappeared. I was free to do anything. I drove down the streets backwards, walked into banks empty handed, and left a millionaire. I had access to the finest kitchens in the world, I could touch every piece of art and smoke every rare cigar. I practiced archery in Target, sniped out mannequins from the Space Needle. Wearing Gucci & Prada I walked through the subways and swam in golden fountains.
The activities were endless. My sanity was not.
What is a millionaire with no one to praise them? What is art with no one to discuss it? And kitchens so grand require a professional chef to do them justice. My carpaccio usually ended up a sad, wilted bowl of mac&cheese.
I quickly noticed the world had been built to entertain billions of people at a time, but to keep one man satisfied was his own responsibility, something I had never learned. I was craving more, as I had always been taught to do. But here, when I had it all at once, I realized how little it actually was.
Restless, wandering, and utterly isolated. I shuffled down the lanes of little lemon villas. Honey coloured houses covered in half-formed dew. Bright-brick walls being hugged by vines of icy ivy. Walking under a trellised archway, a petal shook loose, brushing my cheek in the only caress I hadn't caused in months.
The front door opened easily, welcoming as any home had ever been. This wasn't a house I knew before the Vanishing, but I knew all of the buildings now. The photo albums were still right where I left them, next to the open bottle of a 50 year old Dalmore Scotch that I would have never even seen in another lifetime. How I wished for that lifetime now.
Smiling birthdays, weddings, missing front teeth, finger paintings, prestigious schools, sports games, roller coaster snapshots, tropical vacations, grecian honeymoons, people in images upon memories are the only proof this family had ever existed.
I started carrying a polaroid camera with me. I took a Ducati I could never afford and headed cross-country.
Here's me at the White House.
This is me at Niagara Falls.
Oh, this one's of me in Central Park.
Little square pieces of proof that I had been there. I left each photo hung up on a wall. Tiny snapshots that said "I was here!" to absolutely no one.
If no one was around to recognize that I existed, did I?
This one's of me on the Vegas Strip.
If no one could see me, was I really here?
Here I am on the Hollywood walk of fame.
If I couldn't speak to anyone, could I even speak at all? Why would I?
Did you see the one of me on fire?
If I am the only one left living, is there anyone living at all?
This is me as Schrodinger's cat.
Am I high? Is the world here anymore? Did I simply die and create this space in the afterlife? Am I dreaming? Is this entire place just images projected onto closed eyelids? Though even if my eyes are open, they are still just images projected onto me. Either externally or internally, this is reality because I choose it to be. I am not dead because I choose not to be. I am alone because...
You cannot control everything.
I sound crazy to you maybe. But who are you really, other than a projection? And an image cannot judge me.
I am not insane.
I am not imaginary.
I am not on drugs.
I am not insane.
I am not imaginary.
I am not...
I am...
