by Chris McGinty
If the horizon was there. If it was real. If anything had ever been real to begin with. He turned over another belief in his mind. He destroyed an entire universe somewhere far off and imperceptible with the thought. It was a simple courtesy to believe. Life.
In the verifiable there is stability. In stability, comfort.
He dreamed a gun into his hand and pointed it in many directions. When he pointed it at his head, he felt fear and then he was soothed. He sat there like that for a while. Gun to head. No intention to pull the trigger, not even sure if it was loaded. It was enough to know that he could do it if he needed to. Then he dreamed the gun out of existence. It was a prop for another time.
Something was wrong. The horizon didn’t look right, again. He turned his hand to the side as though to measure. As though he could fix it. Then he did. He wasn’t sure how, but he did. The thought slid like a tile in one of those plastic puzzles. It found itself in the right place surrounded by other tiles out of order. It would have to be moved one day. It would have to be wrong to ever have a chance to be right again.
He closed his eyes. Life. Live. Become the destroyer.
As his eyes were closed, nothing existed beyond him and his thoughts. There was no disappointment. There was no pain. There was no horizon to never reach. Simply him, alone with his thoughts, fearing nothing. It was desolation and it felt right. Why speak? Why give into the worrisome and inevitability? Fixture and fixation. Faction and fiction. Nothing was verifiable and it was fine for the moment. As long as he never had to open his eyes again.