Trips to the Weird. Part One

Ah but there are so many emotions still left hanging in the air, looking for the right words to express them. For in the process of translation from the brain to the written word, some things, subtleties of meaning, are lost. There cannot be any escape from it. One trusts that the effort is enough and leave it at that. But oh when the effort is indeed enough, what beauty, what fascination.

Dredging up all those muck deep from the river of your mind, to surface them and encase them in words for all the world to see. Because you think it is a worthwhile effort in your short presence here in this world. There is the fear of being misunderstood, of other people seeing meanings in your work that you haven’t intended. But what is intention? And do we even have the capability to express ourselves fully and completely? Maybe it takes another mind to complete your own thoughts? Maybe this is why human beings need other people? Not to the extreme end of course of letting other people do your own thinking for you. Artists, no individuals with integrity would not allow for something like that to happen.

Giving up I think, is acceptable. You look at the thing you want to encase in words, you wallow in that emotion you are feeling, and give up, and say, there is no way that I can write this down. And that fact only adds to the beauty of the emotion, to that feeling. It’s pseudo-mysticism stuff. It’s semi-horror, semi-fascination stuff with regards to the world. It’s how daily mundane things transform into something more. Maybe it’s not even a transformation, but a sort of uncovering. It has always been this or that way, but it took a special moment in time for you to realize what it really was. I often have this kind of feeling when I am alone in some forgotten spot, those urban spaces that have their own bubble of isolation from the immediate noise and harsh lights. It’s a shock to the system the shift from the noise and the blank faces of the people on their daily commute, to that silent and somewhat primordial space. In there, things assume an eternal aspect. The light especially is illuminating. It is a crystallization of meaning. How do you express it?

In that space you can see yourself sitting for hours, thinking your own thoughts. It would be nice to bring a chair there and a small coffee table so you can set up a reading area. You’d bring all those books you have wanted for a long time to read but just cannot seem to find the time for. For in that space, what is time? It is a forever-space and you can read to your heart’s desire. I once went to an abandoned wood processing factory. There were all these old machinery housed underneath a vast sort of shed with zinc roofs and supported by huge pillars on the sides. There were no walls, but the space was raised from the soil by almost a meter, so that you can see the space below. In that space, the soil was dry and fluffy, there were bits and pieces of metal strewn all around it, there were cobwebs on the slats of the floor besides the dust and rust that accumulated through the years.

A dog followed me as I inspected the place. Where the vast shed was located was in this abandoned and wide open-space of a compound. When the logging industry went bust years ago because it could no longer  compete with those of the nearby cities, several processing plants were closed. It has been closed for a little more than half a decade, and you could see the place being reclaimed by nature already. The ground had a nice fur-like covering of grass almost a feet high. There is a small pathway of compacted soil and gravel leading to the vast shed from the closed main gate. This gate was three meters high and five meters wide, rusty red surface but the hinges still work because there was a one-man maintenance staff still left to look after the property who oils it every now and then. A small door has been cut from the metal gate so people can go inside the place without having to open the huge gate in the process.

That dog was the happiest dog in the whole world. It followed me and made circles around me as I walked. “How long have you lived here?” I asked him/her. The dog did not reply.


About kara

I just like to read. Used to work in a library. My interests are horror and the gothic imagination, absurd and dark humor, urban legends, and other related unwholesome topics. I write short fiction sometimes. Older stuff:
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