posted on Jan, 22 2009 @ 10:17 PM
In my opinion what makes a great artist be it musical or literary, there has to be a certain element of pain. This pain enables one to tap into an
emotional well of inspiration that when focused properly can be channeled into a poignant and moving product to another. Well, unfortunately I have
chemically choked off that element of pain because I was too weak to deal with my own reality. My doctor decided I needed help coping with the
monumental workload I have taken on, after my description of 'odd' symptoms I have been experiencing.
Without disparity there is no prosperity. And without inspiration, I have joined the ranks of the walking dead. Hi, I'm Paul and I am a zombie.
(This is where you all applaud and say "Hi Paul")
(I take the podium; there is a slight whistle of feedback emanating from the microphone)
"I would like to thank everyone for your support through this difficult time, it means a lot to me. I remember when I was 9 years old and I took the
light bulb out of the lamp in my bedroom. The lamp was shaped like a space ship and I thought it would be cool to put a little toy guy into the
socket so that he could be my pilot as we travel the stars looking for intelligent life. The little man was quite small and fell to the bottom of the
light socket, he landed upside down. This was no way to fly a ship of this size, Christ he couldn't see where he was going. I reached out with my
finger to rescue him and I heard a voice. This voice told me to stop. I took a step back not even knowing why, at that moment my mother entered to
the room. I explained to her what I was attempting to do and she gasped. She unplugged the lamp and proceeded to explain to me that I was about to
die. Something had implored her to check on me, with that she surmised that I was destined to do something great with my life."
(The smattering of applause from the zombies cemented my decision to proceed)
The when I was 11 the rain washing down from the Arizona mountains trapped a friend and I on the island portion of what was referred to as "Twin
Wash". The water was flowing so powerfully that we were between 2 rivers of fast moving water with no way to cross. As we looked for a shallow
portion of the wash of water I fell in and was immediately swept under. I was being slammed with moving boulders and stones. Every time I sunk
beneath the surface I just knew that I would never come up again. From time to time I could see Mike running along the edge trying to follow me as I
was whisked way to a watery grave. A few times during my ordeal I reached up to grab anything to pull myself out of the water. I managed to grab a
hold of a greasewood bush but it snapped almost instantly against the weight of the flow of water. I sank to the bottom again. I knew at that point
that I was meant to die, I hit the bottom and I believe I drifted upward, my lungs filled with sediment and rainwater; my arm became tangled in what
was called a 'cat claw bush'. This was enough to roll me ashore. I knew then that my mother was right; I am going to be a great man, an important
man, a man that will eventually make a difference."
(The crowed erupted with applause yet again)
"So here I am before you, emotionally frozen, chemically distorted, and disillusioned, buckling under the weight if the realization that I am in no
way special or unique. I am Paul and I am a zombie."
Then came the nightmare:
The thought occurred to me, am I the dreamer or the dream?
This morning I woke with a jolt, my heart and my mind racing. I looked around the room for some semblance of reality, anything at all to shake away
the terror of a dream that I struggled recall. Even now only small fragments remain, I have lost most of what I dreamt and am a happier man because
The remaining haunt.
I was having a garage sale, spread out on multiple tables were moments of my life. Everything must go. Happy times, sad times, moments of poignancy or
glee, all that I had experienced in my life laid out for strangers to pick through and haggle over. It occurred to me that nobody wanted to purchase
any portion of my life, I had nothing to offer that was even remotely appealing. Perspective buyers asked where the 'important items' were, things
of value. I had no answer, I heard laughter as the hoards of people picked through the fragments of my feeble existence.
I realized that I have been here all of this time and I produced nothing of any significance or importance. I cried.
Do zombies dream?
[edit on 22-1-2009 by TheDarkHorse]