jane (maybejane) wrote,
jane
maybejane

Janes new novella, called I MUST BE CRAZY or TWO STEPS LEFT OF THE TANGLE WEED

Hullo again. I just came back to finish the long-winded metaphor begun last entry. Please read below if you wish to know the beginning.
I had intended to mention that, although I have turned the tv in my hole off, dont think that the fridge is off limits. Everybody needs his sustenance, you know. However, my eyes are focused elsewhere. Well, primarily on the journeys of those around me across this bumpy territory called life. There are lots of aimless boys and girls, constantly wandering distractedly over hill and plateau, but there are also those who believe with all their hearts that there is a light worth looking for located somewhere in the depths of this vast wasteland. A part of me likes to believe that they are right, and I have spent many an hour toiling over the hills and dales until I eventually meander back to my own hole, which really is not that bad. Part of me simply feels sorry for them, though, because as they blindly search, running madly over the blah landscape, they keep tripping in the holes. Some of them fall down and scrape, say, a knee and an elbow. After pondering their new wounds for a moment, they brush themselves off and recommence their search for search for the nameless. Others, however, are in much more desperate positions. They are the little girls who have fallen so many times onto the cold, hard ground that their hands are now frozen stiff, and their hearts wrapped in layers of dirty gauze and old pieces of string, so tattered and so thick that one wonders if there is even a heart in there at all. But there is a heart, wounded, yes; but thumping angrily inside a crushed chest, behind a quivering voice and the glistening eyes which cast their downward glance with abstract emptiness at each faltering, random step. These are the girls who have fallen deep into a pit and did not feel a thing, did not even hear the crash of their bones upon the floor. They still amble feebly, now on all fours, at the bottom of the catacomb that has become their home, and even cry out, sometimes, as if they could be helped. I am saddest, however, when I look down upon their weak and shattered frames and hear them crying softly, resolutely, as if these tears have some significance in the line of many sorrowful outbursts; as if these tears could be the last. They seem to be muttering to themselves: Why am I so alone? When did I go astray? When did the world become so dark, and so cold? I try to yell, but my throat is blocked, or their ears are frozen off, or something. Either way, my cries are lost echoes in the depths of their chamber or my mind. Who knows, maybe I am delusional, and what I think is the answer is only a path worn by many travels which leads no where, or even some place uglier. But I cant help wondering, every time I peer down at these lost little girls, so wrapped up in their frail shadows upon the ground.
Why not take the elevator located on the west wall two steps left of the tangle weed?
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