The Deconstruction of G - Oddities #2

Snow. Endless majestic mountains of snow. Sounds of wind that thrashed the earth lovingly, in waves of wonder and fear and austerity.

Deserts. Wide plains of hope and hopelessness, of mirages and death.

Forests. Forests of ominous sounds and the foliage of dreams.

Ice bergs. Austere and lonely in a sea of murder and life.

The Northern Lights. Shining in a desperation of beauty that was quiet, in the silence of a moonless night.

A starry sky. At the very least, a starry sky that looked down upon the puny humans in indifference.At least, a starry sky.

G's days were filled with sounds that did not scare her, with sights that did not fill her with wonder, with smells that did not confuse her - comfortable was G, safe and sound.

Safe,

The world was safe.

And G would cry.

The Deconstruction of G - Oddities #1

One day G found a someone to talk to.  This someone, shall we call this person M? - this person, was unique, in that this person was almost entirely but not completely, similar to G.  The experience was odd, in its familiarity so to speak.  For a while, G did not know who she had a conversation with - M or her own brain, which had recently taken to fucking around with her consciousness and memory just to keep its hand in, so to speak, and remind G that nothing, in fact, was her or hers. 

G's little blue book - the keepsake, the memoir that her offspring would find as she died during child-birth (G had oddly antiquated ideas about birthing and such), the proud inscription that read 'Dedicated to Curiosity and Creativity that make Destiny almost bearable', the music and the art and the literature, the things to do and the things to see, the beauty and the death, the miracles and the unusual and the tangible realms of the North where shine the Auroras - this little blue book of nothings had no mention of M.  Perhaps because M was not nothing.  M was G. And that was disconcerting, and ergo, not nothing.

There was the joy of the discovery of the little box of congenial comfort and convivial conversation at first, and then arose the eternal, the inevitable anti-thesis, the very reason one might say, of the existence of anything but  - a desperate anger of similarity, and then like all puny humans, a reluctant and despairing admittance of helplessness - G's gamut of emotions were great fodder for her literary and artistic ambitions such as these.  She used her identity - or whatever remained of it - brutally and she did that to everything.  G would use. G  would manipulate.  G would weave stories into every fact, fact into every fiction, lies into every grain of truth and emotion into every cold calculated move.  G threw emotions into logic, and sense into her wayward senses - and finally, G would spend her energies on nothings as always. G did not mind that she was using M, like anything else, like anyone else, like the entire universe - M was at G's disposal - to create and to destroy.

For M's creation and destruction, M never knew. 

Only G laughed. Only G cried. And like every shadow, G wanted a substance.