Remembrance

He woke up.

Looked around, nothing to see.

Something wrong with his eyes? Were they shut? Or was he? The answer might be deeper, he decided.

He listened.

Faint sounds. Something...grinding? Perhaps best not to ask questions right away. That’d be intrusive. Just let them be. Maybe they’ll go away. Won’t notice you. Best you can hope for, really.

The questions might be presented later. Something to think about at least. It was gonna be such a hard day ahead. He might just prefer to be tucked in and soothed to something he didn’t know about yet.

Don’t be asking questions.

The day previous, how serene it was. How good it all felt... How good did it feel? 

He shifts his weight, his tailbone getting relieved off of some of the pressure that had been putting it down. Do I even have a tailbone? What is this thing hanging off of me?

More questions. That was a bad sign, he knew. All answers would come soon, he’d just need to wait. But more the questions he put forth, the further the answer lay. He knew that. His instinct told him. He remembered remembering something about the saying about curiosity killing someone. That wouldn’t apply to him though. No way.

He tried to relax. Tried to remember what that involved. “Maybe this,” he thought, doing nothing. 

Something was missing though, he knew that at least. “What do I relax?”, he remembers about remembering to ask himself. That’s a thought, he thinks.

The smell! Ah, yes! The smells! They will tell me what I am missing right now. But that’s stupid. Smells are trivial at best, maybe leading on to something even more trivial. That’ll help! He can feel the help coming on. This is it. Just need to smell more!

Nothing.

He looks around. Nothing that catches his attention. “What does attention even involve?”,he muses. Suddenly catching wind of his own questioning thoughts, he tries to quell them, moving swiftly and cutting down each one of them like he has done an infinite times. This isn’t good.

He starts to remember. It’s neither helpful nor does any good. But that’s not on him to decide.

It’s all gonna be worked out, he believes. Believe in what!? He asks, trying to sound cheerful, whatever that might be.

He looks around. Nothing.

Maybe he’s approaching this the wrong way. This can't be all there is to it. This isn’t what he was told. Was he even told anything? He must’ve been, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

Each question weighs more. Hanging. Dragging. Pushing. A question? What’s that?

He tries to fight it. Words stop making sense. It’s a fucking sham, that’s what this is! He remembers remembering to grab his keys everyday before leaving for work. That must count for something, right. And something about the previous sentence doesn’t make sense. The whole thing, it just doesn’t make sense. Or does it? It’s all just too much to handle. Yet, there’s nothing.

The sound! The grinding returns, reminding him. Reminding him to remember reminding him. It’s all he can remember. It fills him, whatever it is. He tries to remember. To remember, is the one thing he can do. That must be of some use here. He can remember! Remember to remember at least!

That just leads to more questions.

He can get rid of questions, no problem. He’s learnt to not ask questions. He’s a natural at it. He’s the guy you go to when you don’t need no questions. The ultimate pushover. He revels in it. 

Questions make him sick. Make him see nothing.

So he decides not to question. What makes a question though, he asks. Knowing nothing, getting nothing, he decides again not to question.

Is that all? Is this it? Is this what he’s become? Is this what lies in wait? Is this what he’s become? 

Wait. That’s all there is to it, he checks himself. 

He might just have to fight this. Who knows what the outcome would be? Who knows where this would lead? It’s hard to check yourself this way, he thinks. Is that what he’s doing? 

He looks around. He sees him. I see you, he thinks. I see you too, he thinks. 

“Do you mean me?”, he thinks. We have to do this all over again. You were so close. Let’s start over. “No”, he thinks. 

But that’s the way.

It hits him. How stupid he was. Trying to remember remembering the things he wished he remembered that he could remember. This is getting out of hand! He remembers a saying about turtles being turtles all the way down to remembrance.

The sound doesn’t go away though. It lingers. He searches for the source. Doesn’t help. Or does it? He questions himself. “It won't go away, you know”, he replies. “The grind is what he must make sense of.” The only thing that will get him out of this quagmire.

“Wow,” he thinks, “I know what I am in right now.”  I just need to stop this. Get out of here. It does not matter what becomes of him. It must end. “You know it’s not that easy”, he replies. What the fuck!? Who is he? Who am I? What’s happening? 

He looks around. He sees himself. He looks at him. I think he’s had enough. “But I can see him!”, he says, sounding hopeful. “But you’ve gone the wrong way,” he says.

“He’s gone”, says him, adjusting his glasses. “The program didn’t work as we’d hoped. It was just too much damage.”

He lingers around, clutching at toes he cannot reach. 

I can see you! 

All of us can see you too.