Atoms make up molecules, which make up cells, which in turn make up tissues, which make up organs, which I suppose make up 'me.' Moody, irrefutable, inconceivable, me. But who am I really? Am I the substance of all the pieces of my body? Am I nothing more than the value of a brain or breasts?
Every year my body goes through some cosmic system of recycling itself. Little shards of me lifting and escaping from the life it wants no part of; those traitorous bastards. They could at least make my life a little easier by taking pieces of my memories with them. My body reorganizes itself like one of those asshole puzzles that only leaves one piece open, while the rest lay jumbled and chaotic with a fragmented picture that makes no sense. And as my pieces rearrange themselves, I can feel it. Part of my heart becoming my eyes, leaving me with a bleeding vision of reality. The atoms are just doing their job, trying to do me a favor really, to keep me alive and intact, but all I can understand of it, is that I am dispersing and becoming someone new every day. But is that someone evolving? Because most times, it feels more like revolving.
It's creepy to think that my atoms were somewhere before me. I guess it could be exciting. I could pretend that a few of my atoms came from Einstein. But in all probability, they most likely came from rat shit. The real kicker is that the dying parts of me are contaminating someone else. And that's kind of funny, in a depressing sort of way. But wherever I have come from, and wherever those tiny pieces of me may go, I know that I have somehow been destined to be me. The me of mountainous bouts of oddities and eccentricities that make me question my atoms origins. Take for example, my most recent convergences with Strange. The kind of strange that has me fairly convinced I am losing my mind. Well, I'm aware that I am losing pieces of my mind, but now I'm convinced it is all happening a lot more aggressively.
I awoke the other morning with a charred arm. It wasn't painful as if I'd actually been burned, but it sure smelled like it. I investigated my room, wondering if I had somehow caught something on fire that didn't throw the entire room up in flames. Nothing suspect. I then proceeded to inspect the kitchen. But no signs of any late night, sleep-walking kinds of cooking. So as I chucked it up to 'weird,' I also forgot about it pretty quickly.
I worked, came home, ate dinner, showered, and fell into my bed. I had weird dreams that I was a Rubik's cube and that the stars were all laughing at me. Just a typical night's sleep. I awoke to another strange and mysterious mark that I discovered as I was hazily making my way to the shower. I caught a glimpse of this new injury in the metallic mirror that hangs over my bathroom sink. As I catatonically undressed, there it was. Okay, I thought, what is going on?! The same mark as my arm. Black, painless, but a sweet odor of old smoke. This is going beyond the typical encounters of oddness. But what am I supposed to do? Let a doctor prod me with instruments and weird questions? I'm pretty sure whatever judgments I would incur from the medical world would only prove that I would welcome the weirdness over allowing them to become a significant part of me. They can keep their atoms to themselves. I ignore the marks, distance myself from reality, and continue on in tedium.
As I am leaving for work, I feel this tingling sensation in my arm, the charred one under the guise of long sleeves. I hate it when my limbs fall asleep. I wonder if there is an exchange going on right in that very moment. But I lose that thought as the sensation intensifies. No amount of rubbing can talk it out of the hysteric pain that deepens. I open the car door and thrust myself onto the velvety interior, hoping to shake, rub, and smack the numbing out of my arm. Simultaneously, my side begins to burn. It started as the kind of hot that warns you of impending danger. The hot that doesn't quite sear your skin, but lets you know the danger is close and very real. It quickly progressed to the burning yourself on a stove kind of pain, then quickly felt like I was engulfed in flames.
As my car began to smell of ash, I looked down at my arm and side and with one quick burst or raw pain, was overwhelmed with the red of flames. I could feel the atoms trying to escape, as I sat there, aware that I was being haunted by the impossible. Seeing myself lit up in the rear view somehow felt like deja vu. I heard the slight whisper of my name from the sky, and as the flames engulfed me, I realized that the stars just wanted me back. So I stopped fighting; submitted, and let myself go where I was intended to be. A place where my revolving has purpose, a place where the darkness can no longer consume me. My source that I had so deeply forgotten. A light in the darkness....for now.
