My life is a series of vignettes. Nothing memorable in my life, I think, has ever lasted me more than a few minutes — or at least, that's what it seems like. I remember that I wrote once of my madness, that I moved on through the moments like drifting from island to island, as if with no memory of where I was, no idea where I was going. Nothing lasted. Even before all that, like 10/7/88 — one of the greatest peaks of my life — even there, the Light I saw lasted only a few seconds. Visions I have had, they were only moments: not movies, not short stories, but short shorts, lasting a paragraph (or two, if I'm lucky).
I shouldn't complain. I have seen some pretty spectacular stuff, if I come to think of it. I guess I that would be the flipside to this, the good I can squeeze from my past. One moment comes to mind, in particular. It was sort of in the middle of two dreams, and it was me, alone, running, through the forests (gardens?) of R'lyeh, running from an unnamed darkness behind me. My senses ablaze with fear, my feet pumping through the thick, wet and weedy undergrowth, through the darkness of the black and shapeless trees above me — all I could do was run.
All I had, as I ran through the dark forest — and this may be why I remember this so clearly — there was the tiny light of hope somewhere, somehow. And if I think of it, I'm wrong about what I said before, dead wrong. There's always been hope. That's been with me all along.
