Caught Between Worlds
The following was found in an excavation of the remains of what appeared to be a normal apartment building in the suburbs of a typical US city. This was all that was able to be recovered, the rest of the manuscript was burnt beyond recognition. The BfD Team has managed to transcribe it here, in hopes that some of the readers and team members that see it may be able to shed some light on the rest of the story.
This is the end. My friend.
Great. Here I am about to kill myself and all I can do is quote the Doors. I wish I could have some eloquent and original last thoughts, even if no one else gets to hear them. Just this once.
But I guess that’s mainly why I find myself here. Trying to make the monotony stop, and put an end to all the cliches bouncing around my skull. At least in the event of my death, I’ll create something unique.
Not that dying is all that special. People do it all the time, all over the globe. By the time this thought is completed, someone probably has beaten me to that great beyond. But pretty sure they won’t have gotten there by my route. And if they did, then I’ll kill them again, in a more conventional manner. That’ll teach them to be as twisted of an individual as I am.
That seems the only way to have something at least partially original. Go so far out of the social norms that no sane person would think of such horror. At least that’s what you can tell yourself: that you’re pushing boundaries and stretching the limits of human thought.
Too bad none of it’s true.
I really wish I could get over this petty human notion of being an individual. Tap into the cosmic consciousness inherent in all parts of the universe and see the grand picture of it, as one whole unit with every piece falling into place and watch as the harmony unfolds, creating beauty in chaos. Hope that stands true, even for suicides.
Guess I’m about to find out.
Death will be a great adventure.
God damn it.
“Damn it, Owen, that’s enough! Pull him back. If we lose him this’ll all be for nothing.”
“Don’t you think I know that? He’s fine. There’s still ample time before his system shuts down.”
“Then care to tell me why he’s flat-lining?”
I can’t bring myself to actually go through with it.
Guess Becky Jones was right, I’m nothing but a little sissy. Afraid of ending the only existence I’ve known. And a shitty existence at that. Wonder what in the brain says “Survive!” when common sense and all the sensory data gathered say “For Christ-sakes, why are we still here? I thought we had decided to end this life. Come on you pussy, get on with it. All this anticipation is giving me anxiety. I’m pretty sure I ordered the oblivion.”
Look, I’m honestly trying here. I just can’t get past some primal part of me that wants to continue on. It’s wired to think that if there’s even a slim chance of spreading the seed and propagating the world, then hang on to life. I’m trying to overcome millions of years of genetic encoding, so give me a break. Plus all the self-loathing makes it hard to think straight.
It’s getting kinda cluttered in here.
I mean in me. It’s getting cluttered in me.
Damn it, I can’t see straight. Think straight.
Straight, no chaser.
No need to chase after that which is already gone. But sometimes nostalgia gets the better of me. And makes me into a damn fool.
BfD Readers, this is where the transcript ends. But the story obviously does not end here with it. I put forth the responsibility of our readers and team members to venture forth and work to complete this story. Hopefully anyone with any pertinent information that can move this BfD exclusive investigation forward will gladly offer it up to sort through this mystery.
I was cleaning out some of my old random writings on my computer, and I came across this poetry. I have no recollection of writing it, but it seems to fit with some of the thematic elements contained within the document. Hope it helps BfD with this puzzle.
we’ll see how he fairs
as he sits and he stares
all by his lonesome self
soon he’ll be in rather poor health
there’s a rumour
that he’s got a tofu tumor
what is the inspiration
for this inorganic conversation
the silence hangs in the air
creating a commentary but
offering no definitive answers
locked away in neglection
rotting away the former perfection
my mind starts to bend
and i wonder if this is the end
and waking in the morning
finding myself suddenly boring
and trying to walk it all off
but all i can do is stand and cough
and now im back here again
stinking of old stale gin
waking up at the airport
with quite the variety of sorts
there is an order in chaos
and chaos in orders
people never know which is which
because they are both the same
yet we continue on with the joke
knowing full well that we all die
but we can’t seem to make ourselves live
but we can continue to cause our deaths
until we realize that which frees us
leaves us in the shackles that
were worn by those that were forced to
forge the key of freedom
and the truth that comes from the air
as the sky gets cloudy
and the smog rolls in
see the forest contained in the trees
and the people doing as they please
without ever having to get on their knees
to diligently pray for that elusive peace
it’s such a vision of sweet relief
a reprieve from this skewed world
where sinner and saint are the same
and the cynics are in it to win it
but no matter how they try
some one’s here to save them
just in case they may die
before the end of time
who do you believe
the people here
that exists in someone’s mind
when we all are searching
but no one can come up with a find
so which is it that bends the mind more,
knowing that what we know is only known by knowing that we know
knowing that we know the known and only the known.