The future? Do I have one anymore? Then again, did I ever? How long have I been lying here on the ground? Let’s see now... not sure how to read this, but forty numbers have passed since I last checked. Nope. These numbers are meaningless to me, yet I continue to check as if maybe if I check over and over again it will suddenly make sense. If only I had learned to tell time, though how that information is useful eludes me. So why am I so intent on wondering about the time? Perhaps because I've been absent for quite a bit and much has changed during that absence.
That is what I've come to call this great emptiness before me— it isn't empty. I recant. Those words are words of convenience. Even still, I seem to have lost contact with my body... why does it matter what I call that time? Absence. That is a good enough word.
Who am I asking? Have hope you fool, hope. Yes, you my reader. I ask you: unless I can regain proper strength and control of my arms, arm and a half I suppose, and legs and waist and back——I never realized how much of my body I needed just to stand up. How utterly demoralizing it is to lack so much control over my body. I imagine this is how an infirm senile person must feel. Their bodies refuse to listen to them, and doing basic actions requires their utmost concentration and energy, but there is so much to be controlled that their body goes on without them, and accidents happen, and words are not heard, and memories are forgotten, and everything just muddles up into a sickly hue of brown. I suppose then that I am lucky, for my body is dead and I don't need to remind my heart to beat, or my stomach to digest, or my bladder to hold on a little while more. Still, my focus does waiver more often than I appreciate. I had a question— there it is now; what future do I possess if I am unable to extricate myself from the ground? What future do I have? Is that the question I had wanted to ask? It is now.
The ground. Yes, the ground. That is where I am now. The ground. We all return there someday, but I am not yet ready, though my body may disagree. How exceedingly foolish of me. Indeed the world I reawakened to is far from idyllic— pow! I feel special to have remembered such a word— yes, well... um... the world, the world is like my body: decayed, ravaged, broken. My mind is not. No, it is sharp like something sharp, full, overflowing actually with cleverness— like something sharp? Perhaps my mind isn't as on point as I want. I think I wrote that already. Did I?
But yes, even if the world is lacking; not to mention my own being, I had wanted to roam around unfettered by oppressive and (as far as I can remember) wholly arbitrary laws. I also looked forward to not having to pay my way; well at least I assume I was stricken by poverty, for were I wealthy, I most definitely would be bare bones lying forgotten in some private tomb. I doubt I chose whatever has befallen my body. I have become this unholy creature that I am through some unnatural means. No, the wealthy are cowards, and although they fear death more than all else they would never muddle themselves in such dark realities such as the purgatory I now inhabit; dead, but not dead.
It is ironic that one such as myself, who had nothing, would gain that which those who have so much desire so fervently: immortality. But how decrepit it is, how far from wondrous, how clearly not what stories told it to be. Unless immortality discriminates against the poor. Is that to say that nature hold biases and prejudices? Then I must be one who is treated unjustly. Rotten I may be, but I am still, in a grotesque sort of way, living, but just when the veil which had been clouding my mind for so long has been cast aside, I fall down some stairs. Unfortunate that.
Am I not to lie here for eternity or until the weather degrades my body to dust— will that even happen? I don't know what keeps me here, and as follows, how it works————I suppose instead of moping on this gadget about my situation I ought to practice rolling over, or however one stands up. I forgot how.