Delusions of Form by Benyakir Horowitz

Author:Benyakir Horowitz [Horowitz, Benyakir]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Saint Bridged Vineyard Press
Published: 2021-09-24T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

There wasn’t much to do besides watch more infotainment: again meerkats. Or their mechanical simulacra. Waiting for life to recommence, the assistants tortured him whenever they came in with their messages. Sometimes it was the kindly one; sometimes it was the petty one who always did its best to command him; sometimes it was the doctor himself, herself, themself, or itself, depending on the day. Never did the messengers have a good message or a promising outcome. Not for him.

The static bored him, no matter how much he enjoyed the images—of an animal’s hunt or great apes swinging through long-lost jungle. The incapacity wore on him; begged how worthwhile this world was. It had no coherent idea. Him too: that’s why he was unsatisfied.

He didn’t think there was access to anything else. Literacy was a bore, or maybe he was incapable. Or he was incapable because he was bored.

He didn’t have the attention span for it, regardless, whether from a lack of will or ability. He couldn’t do it. The devices attached to his body made it impossible. And he probably wouldn’t be capable of the concentration necessary to comprehend anything written and put it to heart. Again, for reasons.

Boredom was not the correct word for the situation but habituation to the monotony. One day had no more meaning than the other; an endless cycle of things happening for reasons he couldn’t process. There was no sense of progress. It could be the rest of his life. What a miserable, meaningless existence it would be. Stability, what good was that?

Wisely, he knew the real problem. The real problem was that he had no way of ascribing any judgment to the importance of the real problem. He had been told what he felt and what he should remember, that any other memory and existence was invalid, by rote of it being what they casually dismissed as a coma.

But that wasn’t true; he wanted to say. It was a tantrum to those ignorant… who had never seen through his eyes. He could put together events, fragmentary at times but vivid otherwise. How could he call them dreams or delusions? He could remember names and faces and even the facts, but he couldn’t comprehend how they worked together.

The visions he had seen—that’s what they called it; before he supposedly woke up to the worst—weren’t bound by mundane conditions. He couldn’t tell a material difference between what was dismissed and what was accepted except that he was utterly incapable of making a difference in this world. His memories from inside the coma were better to justify their existence. They seemed so, he would say, and who could say he was wrong? They must have happened if they were fixed in his mind so purposefully. He could traverse them and recall the or every moment.

But he knew why no one else accepted it: they were wrong. Or that the memories were flexible. To recall things as there or not, it was normal. A counterpoint: an open canvas, the background painted but nothing else.

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