Bygone

Part I

Earth, 2305

            Remember. Learn. Earth is just another planet. A planet, and it is headed where they all go. It is just one in a line of others, waiting to enter the door, one by one. What is on the other side? Nobody knows. All we know is how to live. Life is different on each planet. But we can learn from each other, for there is always a string that ties us all together as life.

            It’s a wonder how we even ended up here. And I don’t mean that way, where we somehow survived an unfortunate accident, and I’m contemplating why we got into the mess in the first place. No. I’m contemplating why we even existed. I’m sitting at my desk, facing a window, which I keep boarded up. I didn’t need to stare out into the constant reminder of the mistake we’ve made, and have become. It’s dark in here, in my cave. The wood that keeps the filtered light from outside into my eyes is splintering and rotting. Pieces are crumbling onto my desk, and places where it peeled away altogether allows rays of sunlight to shoot through and onto my workplace. The walls are in a similar state, the paint falling away, stapled over with posters, as if it could deceive a visitor that it was in any better condition than it really was. Not that I got many visitors. Sure, there was Michelle the tax collector from the neighboring town. She could provide company, sometimes. It wasn’t always the best, but it was better than none at all.

            I lay my head down on the maple desk, breathing in the smell of lead, ink, parchment, and wood. It was what made up the main part of my life. I waved my right hand in front of my face, chin resting on the left, letting the speckles of light play over my skin, as if they were little creatures scurrying about my arms. My arms were so pale, probably from the lack of sun. My nails were cut short and unevenly, and my hair was knotted and tangled, and pushed back into a lazy ponytail that streamed down my back. I was quite the sloth of a human, you could say. I never took care of my place, or my hygiene. It simply didn’t matter to me. My chair creaked painfully underneath me as I rearranged my seating position, stretching back and cracking my knuckles. I reached for the pen and grabbed a couple handfuls of paper and sighed, staring down at the blank pages before me. They almost stared at me accusingly. Maybe I was just paranoid. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe they were right.

            I placed the ink tip onto the paper, but the pen didn’t move, instead blotting onto the paper. The air conditioning rumbling at the back of the room was too loud. I shrugged my shawl closer to my body. It was too cold. Maybe I should take a shower, and clean up. My mind screamed at me to do anything other than what I was supposed to do; write. It had come to so easily back then, when I was younger. As soon as my pen tip touched the paper, the strokes of the letters would come easily to me, and words spilled out onto the blank world, creating planets, people, creatures, legend, and dreams. Anything was possible. Back then, my windows were open, and after hours of writing, I would sit there for a little longer, watching the people running about on their own business, watching as the train clattered and shot past my window, making the ground beneath my feet shake and the sky darken with soot. Then, I would grab my coat off the hanger near the door, and go outside. Remembering when I was like this was as if I were dreaming someone else’s dream.

            Now, I was just a sad author, still young, according to society, but already acquiring the lines across my brow and the dark circles underneath my eyes that were usually signs of years on the road of life. At least I wasn’t balding. I heard stress can also do that to you. As it were, my coarse black hairs were all still real and on my head. The ink blot grew and expanded on the paper as I sat there, staring blankly. Maybe my muse had gone and died. Maybe it had gotten sick, and took a leave. My best hypothesis yet was that I myself had gone and killed it somehow. I cursed myself under my breath for something I might have done in a hypothetical situation that I knew wasn’t true. Did I consider myself crazy? Well. That’s a difficult question, and still pending on an answer.