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love at first sight: an excerpt from my novel All My Sins Remembered (by adamant623)
reading from novel
Here is a list of some of the bands and musicians from my home state of GA:
Dr. Thomas Dorsey
Neutral milk hotel
2008 Chris “Ludacris” Bridges Keith Sweat Widespread Panic
Lynyrd Skynyrd Usher
2002 Clarence Carter
Gram Parsons Travis Tritt
Allman Brothers Band
Atlanta Rhythm Section
Blind Willie McTell
Bar Napkin Confessions
Starry Night @ 3am
The stars were so bright, it could have been day. Woken again by their light, no matter how long you waited, or how far you went, you could never reach what it was you saw through that window, the only way out of the world you knew. Again, it was on fire, as if the sky were torn, and what ever it was that made them shine, was flowing out into your veins, where it moved through your body like blood, waking you once again.
No one understood just how much they meant, the colors you saw. The doctors, cold and mathematical as stick-figures, jotted notes about madness, and latter the experts would theorize it was the side affects of some toxic substance, that made your world so beautiful. And they were right, you were poisoned by the indifference of the world, and you were freed from its ironclad reality, hiding in the safety of your four-chambered cell, which was no longer large enough to hold your soul as it grew and grew, until it was too big to be contained, and there were no more windows, no more walls, so you painted the sky; the moon, curved and delicate as blown-glass, the distant hills, blue as your own eyes, and you raised your brush like a wand and stilled the invisible wind that swirled like falling angels above the violent cypress, that was crooked and gnarled as an arthritic finger, an old finger, one who remembered what the light had once meant, that pointed to a place too faraway for anyone to touch, or even see. And so you reached for it, beyond the dim, golden windows where insomniacs burned candelabra like witches, and you waited and waited for all of it to fall; but it never did, and so you took what you could find and brought back a beauty that did not belong to anyone; and a truth, that no one would ever believe.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I can see my grandfather, who I never knew. I’ve seen him in old photos from WWII; all black and white, as if he never lived in a world of color. His liver solidified and shrank like a piece of rock candy when my mother was just ten. He’s buried somewhere in Illinois. In my eyes I see his eyes, and my mother’s; but not only that, I can see the eyes of all my ancestors, that pollute my blood with their sicknesses like a poison. I am destined to follow them, if only for that reason: that I can never escape their physiological legacies. They are like weeds that climb the trellis-like double helix of my being, and eventually they will strangle me; slowly choking out every bit of life—and everyone will say it was a heart attack from stress; liver disease; suicide. But what they will never understand, is that it will be none of those things that kill me in the end—it will be my own polluted DNA. The half-life of its toxicity lasts a thousands generations.
I splash my face again and look around. I always end up in this kind of shit-hole. This is a terrible place, but somehow appropriate, as if it has been designed as a set where I am to play out my last scene, later to be struck and packed away for the next performance. How many others have taken their last stand in this room? There are dark spots on the ceiling and walls that appear to be rain-damage, but they are really just stains left by the souls who have come before.
I can hear the constant movement of human beings in the other rooms, like rats scratching behind the wall, trying to get out—they never will.
I still long for that place where she waits, that wasn’t really a place at all. It was only a belief, and nothing more than a physical incarnation of my dreams, or even my nightmares. Only an abstract concept that keeps me alive, and gives me hope enough to live another day—or the dread of impending death, that will take me away from this. A promise of happiness; a threat of loss and sadness; a pledge of pleasure, or of pain. Just something real and soft like skin against my own skin, or the cold steel of a knife or a bullet as it tears its way into the deepest parts of my being. I still long for that place where she waits, whether it be heaven, or it be hell.~~adam stanley