Midnight and me
This is a work of my thoughts. Feel free to say whatever you wish.
Perhaps the shadows we chase are but reflections of the silence we refuse to hear.
It is midnight, and all is silent. Let me tell you about me. I suppose a man should speak of what he knows best, but does any man truly know himself? For the first question one asks when he is born is: “Who am I?” Perhaps that is the reason infants cry—the sharpness of the realization that they know not.
We are like onions—I saw we assume the one before me is like me. The outside tends to be the various skins you take throughout life, and don’t we all take several skins? In a way, we are all skin changers. One day you are the perfect son, the next a sordid sinner. Most people, if removed from those, wouldn’t have much, would they? Their whole lives they spend striving for others from a twisted sense of duty.
I wonder who you think I am. These words are another skin I wear, though one more clear than most.
You think you can justify everything with your intellect, but can you truly? Can reason provide us with any universal knowledge? I think not. I cannot remember reasoning my way to the color red, so perhaps it is the senses that are the arbiter of truth. But that cannot be—it simply cannot be. For how can we trust these fallible senses, in the same way that we tend to see figments of our imagination during the night? All of our senses could be just that.
People seem to truly believe men will act in their self-interest. Some people just want to see the world burn, and is that not freedom? The freedom to act against your self-interest provides you with a freedom.
But who are we? Maybe it is due to my lack of seeking, but I am frustrated with myself and the world—myself by a loathing which I bear for the inability to affect change in my life.
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A story of me:
A couple weeks ago, I was camping in the wilderness. It was an area known to be prone to the hauntings of paranormal beings—or so it was said. Or maybe it was their midnight jaunts.
The air was hot and humid, like a wet towel pressed across the lush land. The mountains stretched toward the sky, and the trees swayed. I was in a rough campsite, roughly a couple paces around, sheltered on my easterly side by a small bluff. My small tent had just enough to support me—and nothing more. My waterskin was half full, enough to last me a couple days—and nothing more. My legs were sore, my back aching against the tree as I sat watching the last gleaming of light weaving through the patchwork of leaves. My breath came as so, ssssss—hhhhhhhh; so-hum. I laid down in my tent and fell asleep.
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I woke in the middle of the night, my heart racing. A slow click came from a few paces away. The air was foggy, and naught could be seen except for a flicker here and there, and there, and here. A flicker again, and then a slow sigh from somewhere. I had to breathe purposefully and intentionally, each breath staggering and forced out. It must be the wind, I thought—but then a low humming disrupted my thoughts. I tried to close my eyes. I slept for a short while, uninterrupted, unmolested by anything except a low hum and a slow creak.
Then I heard a low cracking whisper: “Say my name.”
Then it was as if two hands clamped upon my face and mouth. Say my name. I struggled, writhing from side to side. My legs kicked out uselessly against the smooth, cold tent floor. Say my name. I screamed—so loudly I almost foamed at the mouth.
Then silence. And I awoke.
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My nails were pressed into my face, drawing blood that darkened as it dripped and dried upon the canvas floor. My eyes were teary, and my tears came unbidden, mixing with the blood as it splashed like water into ink. The tent was empty, and the ground outside was unmarred by footprints. My own hands had choked me. Had I done this? There had never been anything there but me.
The “ghost” said, “Say my name.” It was me. But what did it mean by “Say my name?” I turned and looked in my journal, and there, in my own handwriting, written in dark red blood, were the words:
“Who am I?”
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