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Every path has its puddle. - philosiblog
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Someone might have pushed me, I suppose. I may have tripped.
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Maybe I was drunk, stumbled into the stagnant water and gave up swimming. But that leaves me the whole issue of who was it? Sounds a little too much like effort. A lesson about what? How about appreciate life?
Bit late for that lesson perhaps. If I really concentrate, perhaps I can remember what happened. Not entirely keen on that idea, though. Why relive it. Might as well not bother trying to remember. Only got me to worry about now. Not even sure if I can get cold. If I concentrate hard I can probably remember. If I look too deeply I may see bits of myself I never really wanted to; lonely, stale parts, painted over with peeling whitewash in the dusty corners of my brain. Well, not my actual brain, obviously.
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The duck pond with no ducks. I thought bodies floated. Or if I stumbled and part of my ragged clothing is hooked underwater on some foul, unseen obstruction. Another body perhaps. I should really stop looking around for someone to blame. I wonder if it hurt. Am I actually supposed to do anything about it? I suppose the whole world must be a little to blame. Even if I did technically walk in on my own, I bet I felt the hands of a hundred people pushing me forward then holding me down in the mud.
How lovely irony is. I remember grey walls suffocating me. A room closing in silently to strangle me with its emptiness.
But better alone in an empty room and alone amongst others. Boarded up my windows, locked the door. Installed a hatch for deliveries. A disgrace. Catching a disease like that. Maybe someone did kill me then. A mercy killing, even? I never really thought about it when I was alive and shrouded in my fine clothes with my fine friends and imported drink. I suppose I was perhaps too big a part of my life. Although, if I was going to be disagreeable, I would argue that I seem to remember that the confinement, solitude and agony of my last few weeks on this miserable planet were more punishment than any uncreative murderer could have dealt out.
Think about what? My life, the deeds I did whilst I was inhabiting that slimy, purpling hunk of flesh decomposing happily to itself at the bottom of a stagnant water hole? Maybe this is hell. Surely the man that delivers my food must have noticed something fishy when I stopped collecting my parcels from out of the hatch? I can just about make out the ugly black hulk of my house; a darker shadow amongst the dark shadows on top of the hill through the death-grey trees.
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Maybe I want to know what happened to me. Unless it was an accident, which of course would be just lovely. God knows those last few weeks were enough to send anyone mad and then some. I had to grope my way around, my joints pulsing with pain. It must have only been someone knocking on my barricaded door, but I was convinced something was in my head, scratching at the insides of my skull, and not quietly either.