Wednesday, February 20, 2013

The Doll & The Dollmaker


He spent almost all of his hours around other people. Opening his eyes and seeing his family around him one morning, he had this thought. Even though he was with family, there was still something wrong. He barely gave it a thought as he got up and went through his day. On the train to work, a feeling came over him. Nothing dreadful, but oddly sinister all the same. The cold creepy chill that comes over a person, making them say, "A goose walked o'er my grave". He shrugged it off thinking it the air conditioning that worked sporadically on the subways now-a-days. Crowded streets, bustling stores, the job itself. The boss that couldn't stand him. The fellow workers who thought him a joke. He was just Irish enough to not be hispanic, and Hispanic enough to not be irish. He hated his job, and all of the people there. It was his shift, late-nights alone in the dark with nothing but the internet for company, that gave him the idea.

He spent hours in front of a computer, then got up, did his rounds and continued. The light off the screen seeming to shine more brightly than usual in the darkness of the surrounding space. It was dark, you see. Add to this the winter cold, which would chill a man in the sunshine. The sun was not his to have, unless running a quick errand during the day. The dark was the only thing that surrounded him; the darkness and the bright light of the computer screen ahead.

One would say when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back. It's true. That's why you secretly wish that your computer was wi-fi connected to a micro-chip in your skin. That way when your heart stopped beating, your browser history and hard drive would be instantly erased, the computer re-formatted, and pictures of lollipops and sunshine placed as your wallpaper.

I said to this man one night, "Do you erase your browser history?" I leaned forward almost ready to grab him and slap him and yell into his face, "Gawddamn it Jim, you ALWAYS erase the browser history!" There was a pause before his answer, "Of course I do", and I knew there was part of the truth and part of a lie in the telling. I remained poised.
"Every time?"
"Yeah," he looked a bit offended. "Every time." Now maybe I'm just a reckless whore, and maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm very serious and quiet, and sad almost all of the time, and maybe I'm "...ME. Morgana D. Coming live to you... from Legion HQ."
Again the truth is in the telling, and so is the lie. So you make up your minds and ask yourself, "What IS she?"

Welcome to my book.

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