When consciousness becomes sentient. |
I came to be one sunny and warm Spring day. I distinctly remember smelling lilacs in full bloom. I’ve always loved lilacs; their scent reminds me of happier times. The world around me was hazy as if a veil was pulled across my eyes muting it. It’s funny how your senses work. I could smell lilacs. And newly mowed grass ... and apple pie, freshly baked, perhaps cooling on a window ledge below. I couldn’t see it. But I knew everything was there. Below! That thought struck me funny. I realized I was weightless, floating on the whim of the breeze, traveling wherever the prevailing winds blew. I was conscious, yet without form. And I thought! Life exists, we all exist with five senses. You know them--smell, hearing, sight, touch and taste. “I think, therefore I am.” But, if I am, what am I? And where are my other senses? Who am I? What has happened to me? It seems I should know these things. A nagging thought deep within my consciousness pushes outward telling me something terrible happened to me. But what? I concentrated, trying to recall. It was hard, for there was nothing on which to hold, no firm point with which to grasp. Nothing but air. I couldn’t concentrate very long. I thought I might go mad. But that thought passed away like smoke blown by the wind. And I had smelled lilacs. Time passed. How much, I didn’t know. I remembered lilacs, but I couldn’t smell them now. Why not? The fresh scent of lilacs were replaced by exhaust fumes from automobiles and trucks. Yes, I knew what they were. But they sounded different than I remembered. The motors were ... different.They were higher pitched, smoother. They were ... WAIT! I heard them. But I was still without substance. I glided above the earth. Apparently, I was not too far above for I could smell AND hear things. I guess my reasoning abilities were returning too. Well, I always was pretty good in school even though I dropped out to get married at 15. Fifteen. I lost my virginity ... and my innocence at fifteen. I was wild but had high hopes for life. Where did that thought come from? I reckon if I’d had a face, my brow would have been knit in deliberation. And I couldn’t remember my name. My first time was not gentle and loving. We fucked in my bedroom when Ma was gone, the fragrance of the lilacs wafting through my open window. I couldn’t get enough of that boy. We screwed on the sand by the edge of the mill stream. Or in the scratchy hay mow in the old barn. So am I back? Was this heaven? Surely this couldn’t be hell. I’m quite sure I wasn’t bad enough to be sent there. No, I would’ve remembered that! I concentrated again. Harder. The veil parted. No that wasn’t quite right--I was able to focus on a patchwork of light-colored fields and dark forests with criss-crossed lines of dull ribbons shimmering in the setting sun. Some senses were becoming stronger. I still had no form. I thought, ‘This is hell!’ I needed more. I looked down and watched a thousand dramas unfold before me. I knew them, I knew them all. Things had changed little during my sojourn in oblivion. The same petty dramas, the callous wants and desires, the evils still plagued men. I remembered all of them. The drive to succeed, wanting to escape the wretched poverty into which I was born, to experience more in my life than what was in the cards dealt to me. I wanted to live life fully and completely. I wanted .... I remembered my name. It’s Bonnie Parker. Word count: 622 |