I heard and I saw and I imagined and I re- imagined

I cannot explain the reasons that brought me to succumb to fear, for the very first time. I do not know why I begin to sweat, at the very sound of what isn’t, even after all this time, and after everything I’ve read, watched or listen to. I do not want to know whether these things exist or not, but I used to know what was real and what isn’t. I used to know.

I woke up.

I realized that what I thought I was seeing was just part of my dream. The more that I adjusted to my room setting, the more I forgot about my dream. My room had this antique-esque theme to it. There were wooden masks here and there, and wooden bowls for my little things. There was a sepia painting of Paris on the top left corner of my room, and outside my window were trees. About a few hundred meters away was a highway.

His eyes begin to adjust to his surroundings.

What was I dreaming about? It didn’t matter. I checked the clock. It was 2:45 in the morning. I fell asleep a few hours ago, when I wasn’t supposed to. I left a small light just about my headboard on. The whole room was bathed in a small eerie yellow glow. I’ve been doing that for a while now. Drifting off to sleep, I mean. Since it was a Friday night, I was kind of hoping that I could relax and fix my guitar, which needed restringing. Then I thought I’d watch a movie or something. Tough luck.

I’ve always been a big fan of horror stories. I’d read a lot of horror books and watch a lot of horror movies. I even bought a horror book in another language and asked someone to translate it for me. A lot of people tell me that they hate horror movies. They tell me things like “I’m not going to pay for something that scares me.” As if that applies to me. I don’t know why, but I always forget what it’s like to be afraid. When I’m in the moment, I get scared, but after that, when I try to remember what I felt, I can’t.

Jayson begins to stare at the ceiling and let his mind drift off.

I narrate my life. I’ve been so accustomed to reading, that I do the same for my life. It’s also a good exercise to practice writing in my head. It’s really helped me a lot. I want to be known as a writer because it’s my passion, and I want to say I’m good at it. And it’s never happened that I read a book and the narrator says something and the character doesn’t follow what he’s supposed to do. It’s like the narrator dictates every move, and it is followed to the end. Of course, I control my own body, my life, and so I narrate it. Or so I thought.

The night had a big impact on me. Everyone knows what three in the morning means. Jesus died at three o’ clock in the afternoon. Of course, there’ve been lots of discussions about what that means, and now the inverse of that is supposedly the hour of which the supernatural is strongest.

I was just daydreaming in bed when I actually realized what time it was. It was fifteen minutes to three. I realized that I was beginning to feel nervous about it. Which also kind of surprised me, since that’s never happened to me before. I decided to just close my eyes and go back to sleep.

Now here’s the problem. I couldn’t go back to sleep. First off, I wasn’t all that sleepy anymore. Second, my mind just started coming to life. Things were just finding their way into my mind.

And suddenly Jayson felt a presence in the room.

I felt a chill run down my spine. What? Where did that come from? No, I didn’t. No, I didn’t. No, I didn’t.

The air changed, became heavier. It was like something was watching Jayson. Like there was something evil out there.

No, there wasn’t. I couldn’t stop myself. Words just kept forming in my mind. I closed my eyes. I was scared that what I was saying was actually going to happen, even when logic opposed it. But what was logic? Was it really just paranoia working on my abilities? And what if there was a presence in the room? What would logic do? What would the greatest men of power, who put their minds to good use, do?

And I realized that closing my eyes was a big mistake.

Jayson was afraid that once he opened his eyes, he’d see something right in front of him.

My mind took me to a hotel room a few months ago, where I had vacation. The place was not important. What was important was what happened one night.

That night, my transition from my dream to reality was very smooth. I didn’t suddenly open my eyes. I remember my mind going from a dream to saying “Oh hey, you’re awake but you haven’t opened your eyes yet.” Right before I opened my eyes, I was able to see a faint outline of a weirdly deformed, smiling face. I told myself that I was letting my imagination run wild, and my mind deemed it “A face of a demon”. I rolled my eyes behind shut eyelids. And then I opened them. I was staring at a blank wall, about thirty centimeters away from me. And the face was still there.

What Jayson wrote off as part of his imagination was still lingering there.

I frowned. I reached out to try to disperse it. My hand went right through the translucent shimmer of lines. It was still smiling.

Huh.

I immediately closed my eyes, and thank God, I went right back to sleep.

I came back to my room. My eyes were still closed. I held my breath. I was scared of leaving them closed now.

Open your eyes, disperse your thoughts, or else.

I opened my eyes. I could have sworn a second earlier, I would have seen something reaching out to me.

There was nothing there. Or was there?

I ignored my thoughts. I got out of bed and I planned to get my cat. The light cast disconcerting shadows all over my walls.

And suddenly, Jayson saw a shadow that didn’t belong to any of his belongings.

No, I didn’t. Did I?

I opened my door. It opened with a creak. Now that just sucked. I rolled my eyes.

Remember how the skeptic always goes first?

I frowned. Again.

You don’t believe me?

I was made to recall countless movies that were true to that statement. I knew they’d all come back to bite me someday.

I ran out and I looked down the long hallway. I was scared that something was going to just come flying at me. I recalled a few other movies with that scene. I looked away. Coward. I forced myself to walk down the hallway. I found my cat asleep on the floor on one side of the living room. I started to make my way back to my room.

And Jayson saw something sitting on his bed.

I wasn’t scared of that.

I entered my room. There was nothing there. Of course there wasn’t. I put my cat at the foot of my bed, and then I jumped back into it. I waited to settle into my beddings. Then the loud silence became quieter as I began to search for something to listen to.

Static.

It became louder and louder. It was this semi-high frequency that just appeared out of nowhere.

Jayson caught sight of something by his window.

I forced myself not to look in that direction. And that was when my head started to play tricks with me. I had visions of some guy and his son waving at me from the highway. I didn’t want to see them.

I could hear little moans from the street and the faint traffic. And then silence. I felt like the sound of the faint cars would make me go deaf. It just felt so loud to me.

Silence. Car screech. Silence. Silence. Motorcycle. Silence. More silence.

I remembered stories of highway accidents and things you’re not sure you see while on the highway late at night. Death beckoned me to join them.

Then I remembered stories about how people would close their eyes and pray to drive away bad thoughts, but then when they opened them again, their bad thoughts just materialized and started praying along with them. The story would usually end there for the reader to imagine the ending.

I didn’t want to live those stories.

My mind took me back a few days ago, when I went to confession. I told the priest that lately since I’d been falling asleep without noticing, I hadn’t been praying at night. I told him that I felt a little more distant to God. I didn’t want that, but I couldn’t help myself with the whole falling asleep thing.

Jayson began to see something materialize in front of his eyes.

I didn’t know what to do. If I left my eyes open, I was scared something would come out. If I closed them, I was scared I’d see something else.

You can already hear it, breathing slowly.

My mind replayed sounds from the movies, and it was so real. It was so real. I could hear them as if it were really there. Was it really there? No, I knew it wasn't. But it was so, very real.

I checked the clock. It was 2: 55. Five minutes away. I closed my eyes. I told myself to sleep.

But I couldn’t. I waited for sleep to come, but it didn’t. The static became heard again, and this time it became louder and higher pitched.

With my feet, I reached out to touch the fur of my cat.

And slowly, Jayson realized that it wasn’t his cat.

That particular sentence, I ignored. I just ignored it. Did three o’ clock pass already? Was it already a minute past? I didn’t want to know what the time was. I wanted to wait till I was sure it was past three.

And that’s when the clock outside began ringing. It rang three times.

Damn. I was now certain it was three.

I breathed slowly, and I closed my eyes. For the next few minutes, I just waited there. I felt myself falling, as I closed my eyes, even though I knew I was not moving. I tried distracting myself with the usual daily matters, but all that seemed a distant memory as…

as you struggled to remain sane?

As I struggled to remain sane? Was that it? No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be as dramatic as that. I realized that a while must have passed, as the bell struck once, indicating it was half past. I open my eyes, and I see my cat staring at me. He stares. I stare.

“What are you looking at?” he says.

He wasn’t talking. I could see that his mouth made no movement. Then again, cats can’t speak.

“I’ll kill you,” he threatened.

NO, HE’S NOT. It was just my imagination. It was just my imagination.

I looked at my cat some more. I forced myself not to give in. Unfortunately, like everyone else, I gave in. I looked at the ceiling. I cannot take this anymore.

People say I bite off more than I can chew. They say sometimes the things I research may end up consuming me.

The truth is a fact,
And now you’re the fool for believing.

Static is the sound of silence. It’s there when nothing else is. Or has it always been there? Is it some part of your imagination that you later re-imagine countless times? The static was almost guiding me, through the long minutes as I struggle to fall asleep.

I lie in wait.

For sleep,

For death,

And I waited most of all for time to eventually go quicker. Sometimes you hear the static when you try listening to it. Because static is the sound of silence. It’s there when nothing else is. It marks the time when the mind comes alive, and when things begin to happen.

And as Jayson was busy thinking of these things, footsteps can be heard outside the door.

It wasn’t something that I wanted to hear. But of course, I heard it anyway. I closed my eyes.

The inexplicable entity entered the room without making a sound. The air changed again.

I was determined not to let my mind beat me. Now I know what millions of people see at night, or rather, feel. I know what makes them look back in an unsure road, to make sure nothing is there. Now I know that if you just fight it, you’ll realize that there is nothing there.

Better safe than sorry.

Well, I’m sure I’m safe now.

Then what is this heavy feeling you have in your heart, at the back of your mind, and more importantly, on your chest?

I didn’t know. But I had to fight it.

Things began to move in the room.

No, they’re not.

The force was getting closer and closer.

There was nothing there.

Better safe than sorry, it’s coming closer. Hurry! Open your eyes! Dispel the evil!

There was nothing there.

Closer. It’s almost here.

There was nothing there. And just when I thought I had won, I finally realized. The truth. Whatever it was that was out there, it touched me.

I told you so.

I cannot explain the reasons that brought me to succumb to fear, for the very first time. I do not know why I begin to sweat, at the very sound of what isn’t, even after all this time, and after everything I’ve read, watched or listen to. I do not want to know whether these things exist or not, but I used to know what was real and what isn’t. I used to know. I used to know that man is afraid of one thing. Fear itself. Never challenge what you don’t know. After all, what proof do you have that it really isn’t there? Am I dead? Or have I finally proven, after so much time spent battling... myself? The darkness? Had I really won?

Static. I opened my eyes.

-J

Why I like the 1950s, part of the Disenchantment Era

I’ve always wanted to live in the 1950s. I consider people who were born in the 1980s or 90s unlucky because look at the world today. Look at the last decade. I don’t know what to think of it. I mean, it was declared “Hell’s Decade”. From 2001’s 911 crisis to the Financial Tsunami near the final years, this whole decade’s been a complete mess. Of course, the final years also made way for what could possibly be the beginning of a better era. Or not. Who knows, right? Barack Obama, the first American Black president, was elected. Stay tuned to see what that really means for the future. So far, we’ve got health reform.

Ok, back to why I’m writing this piece. I’ve always wanted to live in the 1950s. It was the time when the world was all for conventionalism. The time after they were beginning to realize that it was really uncomfortable watching horrendously fantastical stories, and then having to seriously make us believe, that we can make those stories relate to the general public of the time. Seriously?

The 1950s was well known, in cinema history, for having been very adept in characters and realistic films.

Now, I read extensively. Most of the books I read are well in my range of understanding, but of course I try to challenge myself with something that I can almost barely keep up with. I love any kind of story, because in reality, we only get to control one life. Our own. But story tellers, authors, they get to control whole worlds and characters, and how they interact with each other. That is why I’ve always wanted to become an author.

I’d read well known classics like To Kill A Mockingbird, Lord of the Flies, and my personal favourite, The Catcher In The Rye. Of course, I’ve read “indie” stories, less well known stories. Usually short ones, like Jeffty is Five, which tells the story of a kid who doesn’t follow our normal timeline. In other words, he will always remain five years old. It’s waaaay sci-fi. Of course, you can imagine what could possibly happen.

But one story that hit home was a very short story that we actually studied in school, Lamb to the Slaughter, written by Roald Dahl in 1953. It tells the story of a pregnant woman who waits for her husband to come home, and she realizes that he’s cheating on her. So, she kills him with a frozen piece of meat. I know, right?

Mary, having commit a crime of passion, has to find away to slip past the police. Fortunately, she has something that places her in a very good position. She’s a woman. Using this fact, she talks and plays the part of “unsuspecting pregnant woman” outstandingly, and, who wouldn’t believe her? The police, as well as a lot of people at the time, wouldn’t suspect that if you look like that, you’re probably a good person.

The 1950s was a time when it was a conventional practice that men were the breadwinners and women were the ones who sit and smile at home. It was the time when there were only black and white films, and jazz was today’s rock. It was a simple era.

Personally, I think I started to lose interest when the Digital Era began, somewhere around the 1990s. The 60s to 80s were also cool, the Music Revolution.

To me, the 1950s was when they found out it was possible to break free from the conventional, to twist reality. It was, in reality, a time of recovery from the second World War, and the time of the Cold War. It was a gloomy period, but hey, I'm a gloomy person sometimes. All that was what makes the 50s real. But the idea of twisting reality through writings, and then having it have an impact on society, is something I will always aspire to do. I mean, now we have feminism.

On a side note, I’ve always been a fan of detective stories. If I couldn’t live in the 1950s, I would have chosen to live in the 20s or the 30s, when it was known as the Golden Age of Detective Stories. Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, Margery Allingham were known as the Queens of Crime. And they were women.

But I still believe that the 1950s was a very satisfying result of the earlier times.

To me, the 1950s will always be remembered as a very important point of what I love to call, the Disenchantment era.

Disenchantment is a visually beautiful word. Never have I come across a word that looks amazing, but is so full of crap. Ok, maybe I’m a bit harsh.

Disenchantment, a term coined by Max Weber, refers to cultural rationalization and devaluation of mysticism of modern society. It refers to a society where scientific understanding is more highly valued than belief, and where processes are oriented toward rational goals.

To me, the essence of the 50s is the idea that it finds another way to let out the part of you that does not want to believe in reality. You can see why I am not a fan of disenchantment.

To me, the 1950s will always be remembered as a very important point of the Disenchantment era. What separates ancient history from today is the fact that we don’t know what actually happened before. This is how theories and myths were born. That is ancient history.

What separates later history from today is that they used to be content with believing in the unknown, making up stuff from thin air.

What makes the 1950s special is that it was a clear period which proves that there is always a way to meet something in the middle, where your head can be up in the clouds, but your feet firmly glued to the ground.

The 1950s. Mmhm.