Upon the stream of an invisible breeze, a small, pocket-sized, book-bound notebook flies by, flapping its green that green’s made of colored covers as it ambles along being cast to and fro by the rhythm of the splashing water at the place where ocean becomes land. Despite the shine of the sun, the notebook lacks a shadow. Every once in a while a single sheath frees itself from the treacherous flight, catches the visible breeze and takes off into the night. There is a point at which all things fade, never to return. She reaches a hand out to grab the notebook so that it may reveal its secrets to her. The neverending search for the things she cannot know until she knows them proves to be … inevitable. Out across the ocean, she looks into the shimmering glare of light from a sun that hides itself beyond … all knowledge. A tree rises up out of the waters. Tempted, she resists the swim. Can she swim? she wonders to herself. Suddenly, an aching sense for forgetfulness.
Looking down into her hands, she holds the green notebook. A single sheet of paper slips out from between the covers and flies off. In vain, she runs and runs and runs. As if in slow motion, she cannot make any gains on the sheet. A sound of laughter. The single sheet will not be caught today. She looks again to the notebook for an answer. What is it? she thinks again to herself. I’ve forgotten to … to … to turn in my assignment. That unbearable feeling of the academically-inclined, perfectionist-type school child who arrives at school only to realize that she has forgotten to either complete an assignment or study for a test. An unsatisfactory grade assuredly will follow, tarnishing the perfection toward which she has forever worked. She feels sick, overcome with the sensation of a history built so impeccably only to be ruined by a single instant of forgetfulness. Breathing heavy now, she rests her hands upon her knees to quell the nausea. What is it? rings throughout her mind once more. And then the truth dawns upon her like heartache. The sound of an alarm sears over the ocean in two ascending and descending tones and hits her in the forehead. She looks to the land. Lightning strikes. She looks to the tree. The tree, like all things, begins to fade. The sound of the alarm twice more. She feels comfortable, yet her breathing rises once again. She looks to the tree, nothing. She looks to the land, the light from the sun still hidden.
Her head aches with the dull, throbbing sensation of yet another headache. She rubs her eyes and feels the crustiness of dried tears, the evacuated bowels of the microscopic creatures whose universe is defined by her face. Itchy, she scratches her eyebrows. Warm, she rolls around in a soft bed. Whose bed is this? she wonders. “It’s no one’s bed and anyone’s bed,” someone responds. She sits up, startled, confused, looking around. A woman reveals herself within the doorway. “Who are you?” she asks. “It’s not important. What matters is that I know who you are,” the woman responds. What? she thinks to herself, and continues, Of course it’s important. “Thank you!” the woman shouts; “You have no idea how many people simply accept that certain things do not matter simply because someone else told them that they do not matter. Unfortunately, I cannot honestly tell you who I am, for that is a story far too long to tell as an introduction, however, I can tell you that my name is Attila.” Attila? she thinks again to herself. “Yes,” Atilla answers. This again, she thinks again now fully aware of the situation at hand. “Do you have a preference?” Attila asks. Yes, she responds. Ah, very well. I should have known, Attila accommodates.
Where have you been? Attila probes. She sits, mind clear of readable thoughts. What is the question? Attila asks knowing full well what she thinks. An unknowable amount of time passes. How do I know you can be trusted? she finally asks. I cannot be trusted. I know that for a fact, Attila responds. She sits, calm upon the bed. Attila, still standing, realizes this could take awhile and sits upon the ottoman that sits in front of a large armchair and completes the set. The room, lit as though clouds block the sun while rain falls from them, feels damp and cool. Of the utmost modern-looking, sleek-lined aesthetic, an oddity fills the space through the gauche decorum of a few pieces of furniture, with those pieces being the bed frame, excluding the bedding itself, the armchair and ottoman set, the two lamps, excluding the lightbulbs within, and the knobs on all of the drawers, excluding the dresser itself. She cannot decide if she enjoys the commingling of aesthetics, but eventually, she decides that the mix creates an interesting sensation of cleanliness and comfort.
I’m glad you like it, Attila confesses. Where am I? she inquires. That matters less than when you are. Do you know when you are? Attila wonders. If I am when I was before sleeping and waking here, then yes, I know when I am, she considers. Very good. Yes, you are when you last remember, Attila generously affirms. Am I? she warily wonders. Oh, even better. Yes, I promise, Attila states. But how good can your promises really be? she thinks. How may I ease your inability to possibly know my true intentions? Attila genuinely asks in as genuine a way as is possible with perceptible sincerity. She ponders this for a while. There is no way, since I have forgotten almost everything about everything, she realizes, and then she realizes what she just realized. “Shit!” she speaks aloud. “Yes,” Attila agrees. “Yes, what?” she tests. “You are finally right where we have all been waiting for you to be,” Attila answers vaguely. “Tell me,” she demands. “I cannot,” Attila begins; “No one can. Only you may speak the words for yourself as your new truth.” But then you will know what I know, she considers. Of course, but I already know. The point is not for me to know but rather, for you to know, Attila encourages, and continues, And now you know what you don’t know.
“What am I supposed to do now?” she asks. “You are supposed to ask the right question so that I may give you the answer,” Attila suggests. The faintest hint of a remembrance tickles the sole of her right foot. She must not acknowledge it, of course. Attila, no matter, feels the memory as well. “What is it?” Attila boldly asks. “What is what?” she responds coolly. “You remember something but are unwilling to share it with me,” Attila states. “Yes,” she answers in truth. “Interesting,” Attila observes; “Your truthfulness might be your greatest strength and weakness.” The two sit in silent observation of each other. She observes that Attila is of an older generation, but Attila cannot be considered old. Attila is beautiful but probably ruthless, cunning but probably deceptive, honest but probably withholding, patient but probably unpredictable, and … something else, she determines. She cannot put a finger on what’s missing when she looks at Attila. Attila, likewise, determines that this She is also quite unexpectedly beautiful and probably naive, cunning and probably reserved, honest and probably burdened, patient and probably uptight, and the piece of her that Attila cannot put a finger on reflects the missing piece within herself that she cannot put on Attila.
“Well, now that that’s settled,” Attila speaks aloud; “Are you hungry?” She thinks for a moment, considering her physical state. “I threw away the rest of your sandwiches,” Attila confesses. Disappointed, she responds, “I see, then, yes, I will eat.” “But you don’t know what you like to eat?” Attila points out. How … she begins to wonder, but then soon realizes, “But of course,” she speaks aloud while continuing to maintain the rest of what she knows to herself. “Very well,” Attila almost frustrated states. “If this is how you want it to be, there’s no changing your mind,” Attila huffs while exiting the room, and then speaking back into the room Attila instructs, “Clean up and change. There are clothes in the closet. The dining area is easy to find.” She feels trapped in this particular predicament of being unable to assess the situation properly. There’s nothing about whatever is happening that she can mull over to determine the best course of action. She feels frustrated. She feels … what is it? She feels … the feeling resembles loneliness, but of course, it’s something else … it’s … she feels … abandoned.