Verboten Synchronism
To reflect on time is to see it in a new hue. The light of the day can never reach the rays of yesterday, only shallow memories, leery of themselves in the hollow of desire, laud to our accomplishments and shy of failure.
Those were the words her mother had used once, wise in ways, talking mostly to herself and a little to the wind as she did so often in awkward prayer almost; perhaps the wisps listened better than Sam, because she pried on the issue ever so often, the desire to know her existence and if her name had meaning beyond sound. If there was something more than was there. As do we all when we’re searching for something in the nothing of something else.
Thus was her current situation in seeking; the results were in: She had failed. She took her report home and carelessly threw it onto the counter, but the argument was deeper. The disagreement had to do with her very life, her heart and the crux of both. Ifs he had reached acme at 17, she was most certainly a complete failure. To muse on what was is to indulge in vanity, though one can’t help but to access the situation and to linger in denial’s hope, to find blame to place and chase in contemporary, the only thing that could be done.
Everything had fallen apart, and this was the first time Sam was standing alone to see, and she couldn’t deceive the reality of the lonely echo. The results meant that she wouldn’t be leaving Greentown, no new lights, no new sounds, the ordinary song of the day would whistle across her reality forever in a claustrophobic cackle, the admittance of which brought no more approval than the results themselves.
Perhaps she could join the service, though she knew that this would yield nothing. Todd and John, her child friends, had left the summer prior. Todd went into some lonely desert never to come back. It was the talk of the town for a few moments while his mother pretended in their welcomed fancy that it was the most devastating thing that could ever happen to a woman. John was hanging out on some base somewhere, passing beer and smoking the pointlessness of life. Sam had visited him the summer prior. He was nothing of the person who’d left; there was no sign of anything in him but life, some girl pregnant who’d be a clerk or something, a bitter girl who Sam didn’t want to bother much with. Sam couldn’t remember much else.
All facts were equally unimportant.
She wanted to do something. The last thing she wanted was to a potbelly mother at 18 or to be in her grave. Sam wasn’t convinced of childish heroes or stories, but she was sure that there was more to the world than what she saw. And that’s why she’d taken the exams. She could go to a state school and do fairly well, buts he knew that they would turn up with the life she had if not worse. Sometimes when you leave the familiar, you get something even plainer. You’re seen before your time and placed, as his grandpa had warned her.
Sam walked down the street and to her mother’s car. She’d stolen the keys. Well, not stolen. That would imply that he’d be taking the car forever. She was borrowing it for a thoughtful drive. She’d done this time and again to clear his head and to think with a semi-purpose under the azure sky of a new day.
Unlike most people, Sam enjoyed the morning, the soft rays and the ascent of the sun. She often stayed awake prior to dawn’s coming, just to feel the beginning singing. Many of Sam’s experiences were strange like that, but she didn’t tell anyone because she didn’t want them to think her strange. She’d read about blurred senses before and come to the conclusion that they were the byproducts of the corrupt, modern world creating itself beyond nature and changing the fabric to match in their minds at least. As she looked up at the sun, she pondered what other worlds had existed beneath. For the stretch of mankind, the last 10,000 seemed lonely in their uniqueness and Sam couldn’t fathom the world of today as being the only world that had been complex. Though memoria remained in her culture, sometimes he believed other things that couldn’t be from Eastern and Northern shores that she’d never been to.
She wanted to leave.
And that’s why she’d taken the Swedish exams, to get closer to the Northern lights and to reap the benefits of an actual education instead of the sanded down remains handed from the vain onto their children. It wasn’t like Sam didn’t notice things. And she knew what their products would be.
Something in nothing is still mostly nothing.
Perhaps she could blame the language barrier, and it had been great, but numbers are numbers are numbers are numbers. They don’t speak, yet they say so much. She bit her tongue. She’d been four points away from passing, but four points meant being a number or not being a number. She didn’t exist. She was nothing to them, something in the nothing of Greentown, a deviant within its twin houses and shiny cars
Suggestion:
Like many new writers you have made this far too complicated. Your descriptions are often confusing and unnecessary.
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