The Last Man on Earth

There once was this man, this beautiful sophisticated man, and I was a boy, a man, a young man, meeting him, there, at the main building of the collage. And he was watching me and I knew he knew me, for he was watching me and again, he knew me since earlier, early 80s I guess. and I knew him as well back then and right now and then again he knew my father. As a matter of fact he knew my father first and then me, not to mention my mom in between. and we all knew his family. Trivial I guess though, but he smiled at me quite gently as quite gentleman as he was, and I remembered him being one, and told me in the most pleasently piercing sound a shriveling velvet like word can throw in the thin morning air, producing vivid images on my heads as a grotesque conscious deja vu to my eyes: “I know I would be able count on you”.

***

the world is at the dusk of it's destruction I guess and it is later on decades. Orange flames were common scenes where couples screamed in joy or pain or both, for humanity was at it’s finale, or at it’s another renaissance, where and when he, the one, the man with almost everything, who could afford to possibly want no more, would inherit it all, and he, the sophisticated man, as I once guessed and then told otherwise, would be the last person to capitulate whatever is left to what or whoever would come subsequently.

I can not by myself judge whether it was the most glamorous illustration there ever could be or the most wretched one of them all. Yet there suddenly seemed to be I am the one, and I always have been, I guess, with a power invested on me to be the last one standing out there.

***

The sophisticated man knew me. As he knew me back in the 80s. He knew my father and my mom too. He looked upon me as he once did decades earlier and he smiled at me, and was gradually swaped beneath my feet while whispering words of wisdom, just as acute as he once did decades ago. There was a sudden realization for me, ketting me guess that it was actually me being lifted from the orange surface off. Of course it wasn’t orange any more. White snow had covered it all already. I was the last man on earth. And I was ready. I guess I was…

LiveJournal Tags: fantasy, apocolypse, fiction

typical

This is where the backing song behind the protagonist theme sings: “There’s a hideous omen behind my soul, tearing it apart”.

The lonely protagonist turns away and whispers: “Enough with this shit. I’d rather die and not witness this misery suffocating this town”.

…

shut the fuck up protagonist…

urge

a while from now I will start to fade.

in a gradually subtle way I will.

I will fade and there would be a moment by which I wouldn’t exist as I used to.

no existence of me but an aspiration.

or aspirations.

these will shape a common existence, in which I will bloom into.

no boundaries, and I’ll grow.

growth like tones f chords, harmonized and mesmerized.

and that wouldn’t be the end of me, but the very genesis.

I just have to wait…

heh…

I wish I were a filmmaker.

I would be just happy…

Social Pain

درد را نباید فریاد زد.

نباید گفت،

و هم نباید در نقش زاهدی آرام و بی درد،

چشید

 

چه فریادهایی از نهان های تنهایی ها بر فراز قله ها که کشیده شدند،

ولی شنیده نشدند،

زندگی نشدند.

 

و چه زمزمه های روزانه ای که در اعماق بی هدف به باد سپرده شدند

و بنیان ها برافکندند

زندگی شدند

 

درد را نباید فریاد زد، نباید گفت و نباید چشید.

درد را باید

زندگی کرد

The Legend

(Narrator:)

Sometimes, things just happen.

It doesn’t mean that they happen without a reason.

The fact is, they happen. And the reason is there too. But no one knows it.

(exotic, adventurous music begins)

And that is how mysteries are born.

And occasionally, legends too.

* * *

So was the beastly nomad from the east,

who suddenly captured the fascination of the west,

with just being there and doing nothing but,

being a legend…

His story travelled through cities and countries.

People of every corner talked about him every day.

Mothers told stories of him to their children.

His myth grew by time, and until now it remains as the greatest hero of all time:

The eastern nomad,

(exotic, adventurous music plays strongly and clearly)

Who no one ever knew how or why he was so famous.

He was just famous,

and the fact is and has been:

who cares why?

(exotic, adventurous music fades out…)

misplacement hallucination

The dream,

if came true,

ever,

it’s all-right.

Nevertheless,

I don’t know.

I just don’t…