Wattpad Block Party - Winter Edition III

Shaunallan Presents: The Weight of the Word

The Weight of the Word

By Sin (@ShaunAllan)

It's hard being me.

I bet you've never heard that one before, eh?  In fact, I bet you've never thought or said or felt that one before!

That's sarcasm, for those of you who didn't notice.  I know it's hard to believe.  Me.  Sarcasm.  Never happen.  But, I admit to descending to those depths on occasion.  Isn't sarcasm the lowest form of wit?  Well, if that's the case, it's still a form so it still counts.  I have standards.  They may be down here (I'm indicating a few inches off the floor if you can't see), but they're still standards.

Anywho-be-do.  Me.  We're talking about me here, OK?

Sin, that's my name.  Sin-sin-siree, it's all about me.  Isn't that how it goes in the song from that there film?  I'm expecting Dick Van Dyke to leap forth from the nearest chimney stack and start singing in his 'best' cockney accent whilst Julie Andrews flies around with her brolly.

That wasn't sarcasm.  That was a joke.  The highest form of wit, I guess.  I wonder if wit is divided into 9 circles with Dante travelling through them in search of the perfect punchline...

Sigh.  I digress.  Moi.  See, I'm multi-lingual too.  Petite pois.  Mange toute.  I learned all my French at the school of Only Fools and Horses.  But, onwards and...  onwards.

Me.  It's hard being me.  You may think I'm talking about the deaths.  All those people who died because of me.  All those whom I still hear screaming when I'm lying in my bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wishing they'd stop but knowing I deserved it.  Strangely, I'm not.  I mean, that's bad, but it's worse for the dead so I can't really complain.  I'm talking about something completely different.

I'm talking about the fact that I don't think I'm real.

Pick your chin up off the floor.  I'll give you a second.  Quick, because if the wind changes, you'll stay that way - or so my dad used to tell me, back when he could tell me anything.  Death kind of stops that in its tracks.

So.

OK?

I know, right?  Not real!  Of all the things to come out of my mouth, that was probably the most unexpected.  But, I kid you not.  I actually have this niggling feeling that I may, possibly, be imaginary.  Or, rather, fictitious.  Hold on, is there a difference there?  If I'm fictitious, then I'm imaginary by default?  I've not really had to comtemplate my non-mortality before so I'm not entirely sure.  I think, therefore I'm spam?  Hmmm...  It sounds like the old adage of, if you think you're crazy then you're not.  Which works flipped over, I guess.  If you don't think you're crazy, that means you must be.

I must be, though, mustn't I?  Real, not crazy - I'm rootin-tooting as sane as the next person, though the next person is Bender Benny so...

Make your own mind up on that one but back to the question at hand.  Am I real or am I Memorex?  See?  Right there!  I have the memory of that ooolllldddddddd advert for Memorex tapes!  They've been defunct for years now (I was going to say 'decades' but that makes me sound ancient so I'll stick with 'years').  Surely, if I can remember things like that, I must be real?  Otherwise, I'd not have any such memorexes!  I mean memories.  My life would feel... false, wouldn't it?  It would be as if the walls of my mind were constructed from MDF and wee bits of balsa wood, stuck together with double sided tape.  An old Doctor Who set, perhaps.

But they're not.  They're solid.  Thick.  With huge doors to imprison me with my thoughts.  I walk through them, late at night, with the shadows accompanying me.  I take steps.  They slide, slipping from corner to alcove to doorway like black mercury.  They ensure I'm never alone.