Sometimes I dream

Sometimes I dream of being a castaway. Alone, on some semi tropical island with nothing but my will to survive and my own thoughts to keep me company. In this dream, I better myself. Without the distraction of modern, read lazy, life I can right myself physically and mentally. I have these little day dreams of foraging for food without a word in the noisy treeline, of standing still as stone in gentle streams to catch small fish, of sitting by the fire telling grand tales to myself for entertainment. There is an allure to this fantasy. The release of responsibility and of agent is what really draws me. I'd love to just focus on living, or at least I romanticize it. In this daydream, I live alone for about a year or two before casting caution to the wind and setting sail in a boat made by my own hands before being rescued at sea. The narcist in me wants to know how it would be if I were to come back from the dead. How would people react? Would they care I was gone? Obviously, those closest to me would be the most affected but what about those that are not? I think it's that similar to that budding ego that starts to develop in the young teens that is harboring this desire to be missed, to be worried about. It's the who would be at my funeral gag that so many people have explored in greater detail. Do old friends travel to say good bye? Do old lovers come to wish me well? It would be interesting indeed but the biggest draw is the solitude. I don't know how long I'd like it but the quiet sounds like dinner bells when you're hungry.

Oh well. Perhaps some camping in the summer will do me fine. Say thankee sai. That was an ordeal to write, thankee. My phone fought quite hard to eliminate that, I guess not all things serve the beam. Speaking of, I should reread that to get caught up for the movie. A gentle refresher.

Long way down

I want to modify the story idea a bit by making the hero woman bound to a contract. Long story is that not every person with super human abilities has the money or time to be heros. Thus a market for corporate sponsors starts to grow. Companies like Puma, Nike, Under Armor are getting on the bandwagon. These companies compete to win over these heros and get them in these contacts that support them while helping to maintain their anonymity. It begins to breakdown though when the sponsors vote on what acts are considered "valid". Our hero then gets caught in the middle when the people she saves are on the wrong side of the pay wall and litigation is brought against her.

Her boyfriend helps her to turn away from the hero life and give in to her name own desires, her own will. Don't know how far I would push it though. It might be cool to do a Batman to joker transformation.

Dust to dust and all that

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. What the fuck does that even mean? I remember when they buried my family the man in the black dress said that as he sprinkled some dirt on the wooden boxes that would be my parent's and brother's final location. Dust to dust. They weren't fucking dust. They were people. People with thoughts and dreams, aspirations to leave the dust of this town behind with the drive to do it. I know the physics community would chime in with a, "actually, we are all dust. Cosmic dust from blah blah blah." That doesn't fucking help me now. Yes, I know it's all about perspective but the only perspective I have right now is the present and the very limited past I remember. The accident only fucked with my head, but left me mostly intact. I have all my limbs (well maybe not my left thumb and pointer finger but double finger guns are over rated anyway) and I have my life. Gramps always told me you don't even need that much to be successful, he always said you just needed a will and breath in your chest. He's kind of the authority on that considering he was locked up with about four thousand others on a quiet hill in Germany waiting to see the inside of the ovens he was tasked with cleaning for the last time. Like I said, I don't remember much but I do remember asking him why did he do it? Why did he keep cleaning them out? He told me it was because he was all that was left of his family and that he intended to keep it that way.

So now, I'm here, listening to some asshole who never even met the people below him in lacquered boxes that cost more than my car call my family dust. It all comes back around again I guess it what he means to say. We all meet the same fate, everyone but me of course. I remember the first couple days of actually being awake after the accident. They are fuzzy, like remembering something from your childhood days, but there are some standout moments. The first being when a very somber, young police officer dressed in tan came strolling in to my room. His sports glasses lifted obnoxiously on his freshly shaven head, and his jaw working slightly as he swallowed the gum he normally chewed.

"My name is Officer Daniels, do you remember me?" There was flash when he said that. A light inside my head that stung and forced my eyes closed as I tried to chase it down the halls of memory only to find sound and smell. No picture here. I could smell gasoline and rubber and french fries. I could hear the sound of ticking metal as it cools and labored breathing. I couldn't tell if it was mine or someone else's but looking back on it I knew it could only be mine that I heard, there was no one else breathing in that little SUV. There was a voice though. A scared and tired voice but one that cut through the fog with enough force. It was the young officer.

"Not your name, but your voice. You, you were talking to me..." I tried to lift myself up but nausea and the gentle hand of a nurse on my chest convinced me it was better to just lie down, politeness be darned.

"Yes, I was there at the accident." He tripped and stumbled over the word accident. He was fine when talking about himself, like we all are, but when it came to others and their tragedies I could tell he didn't know how to proceed.