Your Life

Bekenze

You wake from your deep slumber; drowsy, bones cracking as you stretch your brittle, weak arms. Your hair is gray and thin with your face sagging; scaly, dark rings around your eyes. It’s the morning, you feel, but this morning seems different. Something looms in the air that just doesn't seem... right. The glow of the morning breaks through the partially opened curtains, revealing your surroundings with dimmed light. The room your in is, of course, familiar as it is the same room you've slept in your entire life. It's silent.

Suddenly, you hear a voice in the distance. It’s your mother, calling you from downstairs to get up. As the usual procedures follows, you get up from your bed and head to the bathroom. Though, for some reason, your body is aching and seems fragile. You look at your hands, fingers pruned and wrinkled, with inset veins and paper-like skin. Normal, but even in your old age you haven't honestly got used to it. Still dark, you shuffle your way out of your door, passing several going down the hallway.

You head into the bathroom and on the way to the commode you pass your vanity. You notice something. Walking back and standing in front the mirror, you gaze into it. That's you. That's... you? That face, in old age, or, are you young? No, no, look at yourself. You're an old man. You probably can't even remember anything from your childhood, can you? Can you? No. That face, with the scraggly hair, deep eye-sockets and eyes and pupils as dark as coal. Your reflection seems like a doppelganger of yourself. Not even a mirror image, but - you don't even recognize yourself. Who even is it staring back at you in your mirror?

Your mother calls your name again. Your name. You know that is your name, but... well, yes. It is your name. That is you. Right? You have to make your way downstairs now. Your mother is calling. Down the steps, crawling around the corner. Cracks are in the walls, with cobwebs and mildew everywhere. In the kitchen, you see your mother. She stands there and smiles. It's good to see her smiling face every morning. Her recognizable, familiar face. Her... wait. You look at her again. That's your - mother? No, no. That isn't her. You - you know who that is, but she's not your mother. Or, is she? You can't tell. Your mind races. Who is she? Where even am I? This isn't my house. My life. I'm not old. What is this? You run passed the woman, as she just turns to watch you run out the two glass doors.

It's dark out still. It's not even morning. You're on a balcony, overlooking a snow-covered ridge. There is a shed to the right and pine trees all around. A woman comes up to you on your left, although you do not look at her, she says to you, "Look at yourself. You're an old man. You don't even remember anything between now and when you were a child, do you? No. Do you know why, old man? Because you are dreaming."

You gaze over the hills, without really looking. Snow is laden on the pine trees branches, and you can feel the wind chilling you to the bone. It was even as though you can see the cold and the wind. You begin to tilt yourself over the edge of the spindles, eventually falling down off your perch. You fall through the trees, floating, eventually losing your grasp on your false reality, and you awake back in your room from your deep slumber.

The room your in is, of course, familiar as it is the same room you've slept in your entire life. It's silent. Something looms in the air that just doesn't seem... right. Suddenly, you hear a voice in the distance. It is your mother.

Stories like this one, even though I created it, gives me chills. This is partly based on a dream a had, and other parts simply fabricated. At its surface, this thrown together story is simply another mindfuck story, although I had deeper implications for it. Feel free to come up with your own.

pegembara

All The World's A Stage by William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

DaltheJigsaw

Love it!!!:)

etherea

Great story!!!!!