A short story i did, which you probably WONT understand, but please interpret!

Ok., so please interpret, also; i know im hardly grammaticaly perfect, so point out mistakes if you see em .


hoorah.





Weakness




“A disciple asked his master, "Do the leaves flow or is it the wind?" His master replied, "No, it is the heart and the mind."”

When surrounded entirely by death, one tends to develop a kind of tolerance to it. It becomes no less shocking, but still, less bad, I suppose. The death of a body is I suppose not the end, well who truly wanted it to be? However once one has experienced death quite this much, you do start to realise that the body is just the vessel, it’s a confusing borderline of where soul begins and body ends, hell, how do I know I’m not asleep. I don’t. How did I even end up here? Well It is worth telling you my story. Love's greatest narrator.
It had been like this since birth, the changeovers. They would come regularly, less at first, but after one thing led to another at home, they came more. Night after night I would lie awake and watch them play their games. I don’t know whether it was in fact true love I was witnessing there, but they certainly knew how to keep me awake. They could only see each other at the changeovers you see, that’s the tragic part, doomed to an eternity of brief encounters, seconds of love and then nothing. I think they were making a fuss out of nothing if I am going to be completely honest, yet still they persisted. And I could feel for them, well of course I could. In time they took over, we all went to the institute and that was that. It was them now. Free to wallow in their own misery at the constant absence of the other. Pathetic I thought, well until I looked upon myself, I’m no better watching eternally. “You don’t even belong here” they would tell me, during our rare changeovers. I would always reply “none of us do” because it is entirely true. We didn’t. The true reality was for none of us, we weren’t like the rest; we were our own empire... the original was long gone; I think we almost forced it out, it lies now deep within, watching. We all know deeply that it contains true power over us all. We never see it, never even see evidence, but it created us, and can easily destroy us.
Often at night in the institute, while the lovers were subdued, sleeping in a see of sedative, I would stare into the darkened mirror of my room, it was in the corner, near a small noticeboard of events and other such rubbish we and the staff had collected over the past years. The mirror never showed what I wanted it to show, it never showed me. It would show fields of dark red grass and trees of an ambient purple, it would show rooms made of chairs, it would show people bent and crumpled into angles I thought impossible, it would show a million things as reality in a little marble, but not once would it show me. The lovers seemed not to care about this lack of existence on our part; they would idly glance and return to misery in love of the other. The lovers depression became sickening if I am to be truthful. Constantly they would come close to killing us all, ending it in a desperate attempt to be free together, but they would never carry it through for fear of what lay beyond death. The fear they may just descend into that hell of nothingness, that abyss of anti reality. Those poor souls, they brought it upon themselves, but I have to say I was glad when we parted ways.
The death came on a cold night at the institute. By this time we were fair used to seeing them creep through the building at night, their eyes ablaze with the fury of envy. One night, during one of my rare controls, there were none of these ghostly spectres. Just shades of the night surrounding me and the lovers in dark blue and black, purple and grey, mixed like some kind of tear in the night. This night he came. His presence was felt by all, and even the lovers rose from their dreadful woe to gaze upon him. He took us to our home.
The lovers were free. To entangle and entwine forever. Surely paradise indeed, well at least they got their way. I suppose I can now feel some kind of happiness they turned out alright, better than me. Trapped in these fields of red.
It was only recently I realised what I am.

“One late autumn night, the disciple awoke crying. So the master asked the disciple, "Did you have a nightmare?" "No." "Did you have a sad dream?" "No," said the disciple. "I had a sweet dream." "Then why are you crying so sadly?" The disciple wiped his tears away and quietly answered, "Because the dream I had can't come true."”

That has to be a dream. It flows, moves, very much like a dream, and the narrator seems to be...detached, yet very much affected, at the same time. The abstract-ness of it has a very tangible feel to it.

There were a few grammatical errors, a few overly long sentences, and a couple of over-used words and modifiers, but overall it was fairly well written. Double-space the paragraphs, though. It calls out to me in a very primal way. The narrator's thoughts were distorted, distracted, and a bit confusing, as there is no explanation, but I think I can grasp a very basic idea of what it should be.

And the beginning and ending are...profound, for lack of a better word coming to mind.