After giving it some thought, I’ve decided to post my free writes here. For now, I’ll post my old ones, but eventually I’ll post the new ones as well. These will not be done in order, at least until the newer ones pop up. All of them are short, as is the nature of free writing.
This first one I’m sharing with you is called CONDENSATION. I wrote it 1/15/11, so it’s been sitting on my flash drive for two years. It has not been edited in any way, nor will it be unless you guys want me to turn it into a longer piece.
I stared at the water condensation on the outside of my cup. It looked similar to the condensation that collected on the window due to the pouring rain and the mist that accompanied it. It was a gloomy day; one that I hoped would lighten up with the arrival of the sun. That wish was futile, however, as the sky spat more rain at the window and the cars outside splashed water puddles to and fro, hopefully avoiding any pedestrians.
I snorted. I wondered if there would even be any pedestrians. Would the humans of that world be stupid enough to venture out on foot on such a gloomy day? I saw a passerby, trying desperately to hold his umbrella in the gusty wind and sideways rain and realized that the answer was affirmative.
I sipped my drink. For some reason, I’d chosen iced coffee instead of the hot alternative, which would have been the logical choice on such a cold, wet day as that. However, the air inside the cafe was warm, almost – dare I say it – hot, which caused the melting ice to drip down the side of the cup in small droplets. I wasn’t sure about the effect of the melted ice on the caffeine’s potency, but I supposed it didn’t matter anyway. I needed very little sleep, and as a result, was almost never tired unless I overexerted myself. The coffee was chosen for its sweet yet darkly rich taste, not for any amount of caffeine it might have contained.
A noise from outside startled me out of my pointless and rambling internal monologue and I turned to the window to appraise the situation. The squeal of tires, a couple of screams and indignant hollers, and I closed my eyes. I was tired, so tired. Similar accidents happened nearly every day when I spent any significant amount of time in major cities. If anyone were to connect the dots, however, I’d deny any participation in it, for surely it couldn’t be my fault. I had no idea of the technicalities of my… predicament and I knew I’d no sooner get any real ideas about it either. It was a mystery to all parties involved, and I supposed that only some sick, misguidedly amused member of the cosmos was behind it – whatever “it” even was. I sometimes referred internally to it as The Great Mystery of Myself.
As for who I was, even I did not know that. Sometimes I wondered if I might have received flashes of memory from what the humans called “the subconscious mind”, but due to how brief and outright strange they were, I hesitated to believe any of them. A skeptic though I might not have been, I did retain enough of my questioning mind to contemplate and question the authenticity of the images and stimuli. I sensed that a blind follower I had never been. Still, sometimes I felt as though I was on the precipice of self-discovery, and yet other times I felt like my life and soul were eternally shrouded in a mystery that even I could not break through. It was a darkness more severe than anything the night could achieve, and deeper than even the Marianas Trench. It often consumed me and haunted me to the brink, but I always found that the more I feared I fell, the more lifelines suddenly sprang out of thin air to help me catch myself before I was lost to the endlessness and terrifying confusion.
Still, despite it all, I always trudged on with the faith and hope that I would one day know myself and my past – that I wouldn’t be just another droplet of condensation on a bigger cup, sitting on a bigger table.