out in the darkness,
a fugitive running.
Running from God.
Did I write that? I don't think so, Maybe it was me. Wait, maybe I heard it somewhere.
I sigh in frustration and look to the skies but I see nothing.
Just darkness. Not the total black, the absence of light brought on by the spinning of the sun, the darkness that signifies rest, rejuvenation ,
No. no, just a faint black, a charcoal blackish grey brought on by a fog;
I glance around but I have no clue where I am. The fog is too thick. I know that there's something beyond the fog. Um, big ball of fire burning in the sky. Sun. That's what it's called.
After forever, I see a path, a meandering, twisting path. Its bricks not yellow like Dorothy walked on but red. Wait, I can see the colour. Maybe this is the path I walk.It's a long trek but that's what I'll do. Trek. Lugubriously down the path. Flashes of gold before me, of red, of blue, of orange, of purple, of a colour I cannot name but seems like a blue green thing.
Sometimes I can catch them, sometimes I can't. Sometimes they form a picture. A face in front of me. A voice. A flash of lightning in a cold dank world. Rain, falls. I know rain. Rain, will make the flowers? Grow. No! not my words as well. Where do they come from? The weather grows darker, the fog grows thicker. I wish I remember how it all started. I close my eyes to think.
When I open my eyes, two little faces appear in front of me. I know them? no, I don't. Wait, I do know them. They chirp something at me, like two little birds in a pod. Peas, peas in a pod. Peas don't squeak. Peas posit, no, peas don't talk at all they're not sentient. Damn it, the fog is back. I look at them and smile. That's what you do when you see people don't you?
Now I see some people coming into the room! Big men! They'll steal from me! kill me! I have to defend myself! Oh wait, one of them wears a face. I've seen a million times; it's so... familiar. I look across to the mirror in the bathroom. Oh, he wears some version of my face. But younger. With... well with better hair.
He growls at me, his voice booms and brings the room to a stand still. I still don't know what he says. The smaller one echoes. His voice slightly smaller, less boom-y. Boom-y, that's not a word.
There's a word for it, I, The words are there, in my head, like rays of sun bright, no sunlight, coming through the darkness. I wince at the thought of the heat burning my skin. But there's no heat. Just fog. Just that blasted, bloody fog. It came one day, out of the darkness chasing me down like I was fugitive. It never sleeps, it never eats, it never leaves. Just there. Why can't I see the sky. I remember what the sky was like. It was, green? no blue. The sky was blue.
My dreams are interrupted by the boom-squeakers. That's not a word is it? I used to be good at words, I used to write them in a book, for others to read, for others to write
The four faces are in full speed now, booming and squeaking and squeaking and booming. I nod at what they say, I still don't understand them. Something about school and class, something about work and money.
Suddenly I see her, there's a fine one across the room, I open my mouth but no words come out. She's wearing blue is coming with something. Oh I remember this! Sweets! she must be coming with sweets. She's young and pretty, she knows my name. Wait, why does she know my name. A little too well, wait are we related? that would be bad. Oh no, she doesn't look like any of those around. Her rosy red lips move but I can't hear the words she must be saying. The fog always prevents that. She's brought me candy I think. In a little bowl too! Oo! that's nice. I used to love candy. I think I still do now?
I let my guard down! Oh no! they've got me! (Pop!) they've forced me to swallow something! I better spit it out! Spit! Spit! Spit! Oh wait, the darkness is coming, it's better than it normally is. I see the void and know it's time to rest. Maybe when I get up tomorrow, the fog will finally... clear.
As I teeter on the edge, I hear it. the voices. They're saying something. They say....
"Is Grandpa Grandpa today, Dad?"
"He'll be fine, son. sniff He'll... maybe. be ok. Some day."
"Maybe tomorrow he'll remember us?"
"Maybe tomorrow, now put on the music. He loved Les Mis, it was always his favourite."
"Don't go yet, Dad. Please... don't."
The world goes dark but its finally happened. The fog has cleared and I see the sky, just before the sun turns and it goes dark a final time.
Now I rest.
The first introductory bit is from "Stars" sung by Javert in the musical version of Les Miserables. I'm using a tiny bit of it here for a) its relevance on how this man feels like he's been chased like a fugitive by the fog and b) to represent the fact that he has somewhat forgotten that these are not his words, that his memories are blurring.
Many people out there have a friend, or a loved one who is suffering from dementia. It's probably the worst punishment to have especially for this man who I've imagined to be a word-smith, perhaps a writer, of novels, perhaps dictionaries.
If you have a relative who's like that. Maybe go visit them one day, Maybe you can be the wind that pushes away the fog and they'll be able to see the sun someday.