Concrete Reality


1. Concrete Reality (I)

This is what I become, in becoming without you, I become what is me here now, I have become. It was with you in the street while we were walking at that pace we did while talking to escape the land of nightmares and unholy trinities that we walked at some considerable run to escape from that I became myself, myself I and I alone. While fighting and grappling and struggling with one of the monsters in the land, a fire was lit by a dragon circling in the sky above me; blowing into the monsters face, the smoke from the fire repulsed him, making the monster run far away back into the forest where he came from, and where hopefully he would  be lost and never return again. Smoke was now my friend; my ally; my foe I suppose, but that was to me and not to the wilder dystopia of the mind forest that lay out before me formerly before we managed to run away so far away here now, but smoke was still here with me. I blew on the cigarette as we walked past the three storied houses, opposite the allotments and parkland that separated us from the wider world beyond. It was startling to realise that what I had discovered was not just the pitfall of my wider being; but also leading to the return of us back to the land where we had come so long from. To see the land I had discovered, we, you and I, would have to climb a mountain so high that we would be on the moon before we reached its summit-a mountain nobody wanted to climb. Whenever I asked anyone to climb with me, they refused and pulled me down from its foothills. I think that we will return to the mountain later-where this path will take us we do not know.

-Do you know? She asked me as we peered into the path

-No, is he in there? I replied

-Maybe, came the mysterious answer

We walked down the path that was residential for the first half, with high walls of grass and bush and ivy taking up the latter, that those stretched now for miles and miles until the next town, we came out and saw that were almost where we started; far above us a helicopter circled and we wondered if it was going to swoop down on us, but could it even see all the way down? We walked on further to the end of the main road; to us at that time the end of our sanity. You doubted that the direction I was walking was the way back, but eventually we turned out to be right. To return back to our home, one just had to use the church with the telephone masts on as a compass, guiding us on our way back. The church followed on from the  parkland and allotments, and was just behind the big three storied houses-we had indeed completed a full circle. It had taken hours, but those hours were possibly the best few hours I had ever spent; away from the ruckus and destruction at home, where still the enemies fought and when I returned I would be forced to fight my corner as well, whether I wanted to or not. In the forest we had passed some of the scenes of the formation of he-long forgotten relics of the building of perhaps a mountain, shared by those now spread across a wide basin throughout the town. A tree that had heard far too much; too many secrets, secrets that only a few had heard. Now the tree would remember those secrets far longer than any of us would. In an existential way, the tree was crooked, bent and twisted to conform to what was not their around it; like us, how we had sat on the tree those years ago, conforming to what we thought was there, but what was really just thin air in front of us. Further along in the forest you and me walked past the benches were we used to sit; again, talking, conversing-none of us had conversed since we fell off the cliff of the land; and into the hoards of evil that we now had to fight from our minds. The grey and paltry trees of the winter framed our viewing of the town from the forest hill, where we could see the north east and beyond into the agricultural fields and the hills that stopped our vision from gorging itself on too many tufts of wheat growing on farms that stretched out for miles. It was almost seamless the way the tall tree trunks evaporated away into the green leaves that they wore as a crown and then how those leaves faded away into the early summer evening sky, pink but only lightly, still milky with the light blue that preceded the blackness of the light. This conflict that played out before us that evening on the hill top overlooking the north east of the town and into the deepest rural areas was a conflict that had gone on every night since the planet was formed and the rest calmed down.  Its sheer nature that the nature I or we were observing was so adversarial-night day, land sky, urban rural-everything was at a conflict that could not be explained in a peaceful means. But yet it was, so, so peaceful, me and you and he and whatever else or whom was there, standing and staring, wind blowing through or limbs and hair and perhaps even a pale waning moon struggling to get through the remaining daylight, watching over us watching over it all. Greenery, in the form of grass, disappeared on the other side of the hilltop, falling down in a flat edge all the way to the ground below, where the wall of the library sprung up, nestled into the hillside like a baby bird in its mother’s wing. Perhaps I had exaggerated the hill’s height-at most around a six meter drop from top to bottom; the damning truth being that there was a lower gradient not a dozen yards from where we were standing, putting down to our slightly younger imaginative minds that we were far away from our homes out on a quest, to find something lost.

We had nothing to find, not even ourselves.

So much was the closeness of the hillside to the side of the library that it was possible to half climb up onto the flat asphalt roof. Lying with my back on the library roof I stared up with my face to the darkening sky. How far could I see? Forever? No, nothing was forever, that was obvious and was almost a learnt dogma amongst us-if things did last forever, we would all still be in the trees or in the park and not going out and fulfilling our potential. But this concept of ‘us’ was now not even here, for these thoughts were a floating concept when it was just me and you-no one else who used to be here; just two. Us was a loose concept anyway; at least I meant it to be.  It was not a romantic us, no, not a unbreakable us, no, but it was a friendly us-friendly was something I had not felt for a while. My only real friend-or friend that I was sure was my friend-was with me now, on the library roof, staring up into the twilight sky. When she wasn’t there, I had no other option but to sit in the bedroom, which I kept in a sort of artificial night time to correspond with my mood. The window was kept locked at all times, and the key nowhere to be found; the fear of me jumping out was apparently too great for them to handle. Everyone was else was social, being friendly, being in love, being generally much more alive than I was. Did I resent those people? Slightly, although superficially I was happy with the existence I had built up around myself-away from the reality of it all. Possibly even detached from reality; it may not have been a step too far to say I had no sense of reality. From our perch on top of the library under the hill we could still see all across the north east, just without the trees to cause our eyes distraction. I rolled over onto my side. On the opposite side of the rode was a field, which contained a dilapidated play park and ample space for football or other recreational activities. There was a group of boys on the field, playing football as the sun began to set behind them. I wondered about them. Who were they? Was the first question, and perhaps the most sensible, but then could be repudiated because there was no particular reason I should know who they were. I couldn’t see from here how old they were-they seemed to be younger than we, perhaps three or so years our junior. It was a state of limbo, still amply infantile but yet with the inner rage to start to grow; both physically and emotionally. It was at that sort of limbo age that we, that being us, walked around this very forest laying out on the hilltop behind me, with not a care in the world, at least not a care that would qualify as a care now. No worries about education, academia, relationships, friends, the future. The future still lay out beyond us like a twisting maze. I glanced out beyond the park, and into the rows and rows of terraced houses that stretched out until the thick tarmac of the road stopped the mass of bricks from growing any further. All the people that lived in those houses, hundreds of people, going about their lives, going to work, travelling in their cars, buying from the shops-it seemed so monotonous. It was as if this maze of life featured a single passage to the centre; the centre wasn’t a reward either, at least to me. The houses were so bland too, either red brick or coated in some post-war plaster board painted in faded colours from the seventies. Every few minutes someone would scuttle out of their house, to their car or garage or to wait at the bus stop or some other dull task. Why were there so many people out and about in the evening? Maybe it was just me. The last rays of the sun reflected off the windscreens of the cars, sending them in all directions, like smashed glass. Soon the sun would be gone and the moon that was so pale above us would begin to shine and give a monochrome lighting to our surroundings. A few roads away someone screamed and a baby began to cry and a cat screeched and ran out into the road in front of a car as it sped down the hill to the main road. The events were I assume independent, but happened with such ease and with such speed one after the other that a sort of illusion sprung up. Illusion, it was a funny word, and a concept at that. What if the whole world turned out to be an illusion? Illusions could deceive, and the world had a way of being deceitful. My eyes followed the car has it went down the road, a thick grey gas pouring out of the back of it, leaving a reminder to the air that it had passed. From the end of the road it turned into the main road, and passed the row of shops. It was a yellow car, and a long car, like one of the ones from the sixties or seventies. Alot of the things in the town were from the seventies, it seemed. The fabric roof of the car being black, it was like a lopsided bumble bee as it so quickly raced down the road. An arm stuck out of the car’s window-it looked like a man’s arm, with thick wiry black hair and worn and calloused skin. On the end of the hand was lit cigarette, its white smoke mixing with the car’s grey smoke as the car paced ahead of it. The car went under the black railway bridge. The man’s head followed his arm to take a puff on the cigarette. It was too far away, the car, to see detail now. It had been too far away to see the window or the arm or the cigarette since it had passed me on the library roof several minutes ago. I had deceived myself, and made the whole sequence of events up.

I had been deceived.

 Illusions again. My mind went on mad rampages like this occasionally-it was a refreshing flow of life through my synapses. I had lost all track of the car now, my eyes had stayed with the bridge, the bridge that never had trains going across it. As I had predicted the sun had now fully set and

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