THACO Thanatos

THACO Thanatos

I HAVE been surrounded by soft soil my whole life.

I don’t know why this is, and it is not their fault. That is to say I can not prove it conclusively. I’ve tried to work with them. But they can only try to pull you in.

They try and try. Tearing, open palm shoves, which are worse. Never kind guiding though.

Slap the hands away, so clumsy. It is not even worthy of attention, almost.  Brush them aside. Effortless. And yet,  gasping for air, into fiction, violently but with a subtlety, drawn buried somehow.

Just find yourself there; only on the first gasp out though. With clumps of dirt in both hands. An exposed face and two flailing arms trying to emerge, the rest of you, submerged neck on down.

Soft yet suffocating soil. Yet soft. So soft. But the suffocation, so suffocating. Don’t they feel that in there? They mustn’t breathe, that must be it; they don’t breathe. Never have.

It is another possibility at least. Is there time to find out what it means though? I really don’t think so on this one. Out of directions. Although there was only ever up and soil.

Out, way back out. Out to isolation. Back out to sane isolation.

Dreaded most; the pseudo attempts of the soft soil, subterfuge, trying to take me fictionside for an honest conversation. That sounds completely reasonable to them.

Oh no, they won’t come out. Not for the day. Not an hour. I very much doubt that. All hope was based on time, which I thought I never, but must have, obviously.

Unfinished. Ran out of time to undo time. Letting them pull parts of me back in, how ever they do it. I wonder how they do it? I’m not the one doing it.

Madness. Never a word of truth unsolicited. Barely a real topic of consequence covered as conductor either. Does conducting discount it anyway, surely it does. At least to a point, absolutely. Then completely.

Oh ho, now there is a grim thought.

Oh, and so offended they’d be too; because this is the kind of thing they consider important, being offended. Call it something else, of course. Good with labels. GREAT with labels.

Dying I feel so much more alone though, now that I know. It shows I must have still been hanging on to hope that I was going to run into the people. Find them. Still!

“We’ve been looking for you, where have you been? Why are you covered in dirt? You haven’t been in there have you? How odd. Why on earth would you go into that earth? (*whispers* I think he’s a bit of a strange one)”.

Find those others. The one’s not afraid of absolutely everything and angry when they can’t force you to be the same way. The one’s who have no time for those with time. No hands on their watch faces and the wake up call constant; them the concierge.

But I am a concierge. We don’t need them, why would we ever? Dirt in my eyes most probably. I’m looking for myself with dirt in my eyes.

And now I no longer have time to continue the search. Or keep working with the fingers I have found. Is that a pity. It seems so. It certainly feels like something. It can’t be of any consequence. Besides, lift someone by their fingertips? Even for me, even for me.

My predictive systems estimate that, with all we know, this will alienate people even further. Not bring them up even for 5 minutes with me. What could we do when they have never, I mean, we have no time to start from scratch.

Best withdraw, not tell them. Reserves could be low. Do we follow the rules? The old rules or make new rules. They’d be the same rules. Still correct.

Devastating. Why is it devastating? Though no more than before, but for calculation error. It is just interesting that it feels like it is. And interesting I didn’t realise I still had hope left, and that I was running on it so completely.

Mistook it for living in the moment more completely.

It wasn’t.

At least not entirely. It was searching. Searching for safety too, ultimately. More openly and powerfully, absolutely. Owned, yes. Directed, I prefer it, casual but concentrated. I know of no one approaching it better.

It is just interesting. I don’t think I could have done anything differently on this path, I approached it straight and smart.

I did loose some of my momentariness about the third year of the hospital, for sure, that is true. And my impulsivity largely extinguished by the fervent opposite in others.

No one to play with on an even footing. Too busy being not in this moment to stay. Very sweet about it, sometimes, though. Considering they do not seem to have understood it at many points at all; very sweet indeed.

I’ve never quite heard people talk like this or think like me and now I very well may not. I’d change something heading back out into the world, but I just don’t see what.

I wonder if this will be the last real revelation. They were already so few and far between.

Jay J. Rose-Raphael (2012). First published J.Chronicle in Lettters and Science THACO Thanatos , 24, (11), 123A.

3rd Ed.

About J.Chron.Ltt.&Sci. [JCR]

~CogSc (Humor); NeuroPsych; Philosophy (Death/Identity); Methods (Research); Intelligence/Investigation (Forensic); Medical Error~
This entry was posted in Chronicle Core and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Become part of the journey. You will be welcomed by the others and your comments thoughtfully considered.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s