You Don’t Owe Me Nothing

It was wrong of me, I know, to think I could know you, any part of you that you did not reveal.

Foolish to think I could tell what you were telling, to feel any real friendship, to sense any camaraderie. Not your fault that I tried, probably not my fault, either. I’m just wired that way. A little pseudo soul-baring, and certain synapses fire. The feeling is as real as a dream. I carry it along from sleeping to waking, and it is part of me, like I know my phone number, like I know what drawer contains the knives. For a little while it is scribbled on a scrap of paper and pulled out when needed; for a little while I have to pull out all the drawers, looking for the knives. But then it is second nature, my fingers know the number, I go instinctively for the correct drawer, and the knife is in my hand.

It’s like that, but it’s not that.

We never knew each other. We never were friends. The whole thing is – not a sham, exactly. Just… not anything. Like Los Angeles, there is no there there. I can’t blame you, because in a way you weren’t in on it. It all happened inside me, flecks of matter flying through my empty universe, pieces falling into other pieces, exploding apart and coming back together again under the spell of gravity, circling each other until something began to take shape. I should have known it wasn’t real, because it never settled down, kept changing shape in a way that real things do not. Real things come into focus and let you get a good look at them, let you return to them and find them essentially unchanged.

Evolving, but the same inside.

And you said from the start it wasn’t real, that it was all imagined. I just didn’t know how much of the imagining was mine.

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8 Replies to “You Don’t Owe Me Nothing”

  1. Or…maybe it was a collective imagination. One of the one that owes you nothing, and you, and me and all the rest of us. Or..maybe (as has been said elsewhere) there is no “us.”

    I’m not sure. It just makes my head hurt when I’m this tired.

  2. Just for the record, I did not write he that shall not be named. I only pretended to write him in the comments, but according to She Hulk, it’s real, all of it real.

    And also for the record, I am not really Adrian, I am a extraterrestrial entity whose conciousness can span time and space, but not equally well, and I like vanilla ice cream

    Ahh, who am I kidding?

    You are all just figments of my imagination. Now I am commanding you to hit the button and type. See.

  3. This is not real. I am not Ron. Or, not always. She Hulk is right. Even the imaginary things have their reality, I’m always bumping into them. I just don’t want to hear you moaning so much that it sounds like a threat to disassemble the blog or yourself.

    Signed, Number Five

  4. Number Five – interesting use of “disasembled” in your post. But that’s what we do – we break it all down and build it all back up again in our own image. We own everything we see, think, and touch in our own seperate realities.

    As for Larry Jones, you gave your thoughts and were part of a play, a representation of even this little virtual space/reality that evolved and did change. Nothing stays the same.

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