This is a recording for posterity. Posterity, now that's a funny word. Anyway, I don't know if this is a waste of time or not. Maybe I'll be an old man and listen to these and laugh at who I once was. Or maybe whoever comes across my corpse will get a kick out of these ramblings. If you took this off my corpse, you suck. You desecrated my grave. Hahaha, I'm kidding. But seriously, how could you?
I wake up at night in a cold sweat. No, this isn't one of those kinky recordings. I have nightmares. Snippets or flashes of scenes I've never beheld. They don't make any sense. They aren't mine. Maybe I am crazy. Or losing my mind. But I don't have anything to measure it by. They say crazy people don't think they are crazy. But when I catch a glimpse of a nightmare scene I think … maybe I am.
I am Kazantzakis Zorbas. Kaz.
Who that is, I don't yet know.
All I do know is the little bit of me that holds memory … I can't lose it. I feel as though my life is sand and the tighter I try to hold to it, the quicker it seeps through my fingers. In the end all I hold is a residue of dirt and grime where the sand once was.
Maybe that is all that is left of me, a residue of dirt and grime. But I want more. Yet I know not if I deserve it. Who am I? Where do I come from? What will I become? I don't know. Maybe my future self will have the answers. Maybe you, the person who snatched this from my grave, will know. May your legs grow together you thieving grave robber.
Unless it's old me. Then just remember not to drink a lot before bed. Don't piss yourself. Unless you have a hot nurse to clean you up.
I hope to make more of these. If I don't, well, I guess that was the end of my story. And
that sucks.
I wake up at night in a cold sweat. No, this isn't one of those kinky recordings. I have nightmares. Snippets or flashes of scenes I've never beheld. They don't make any sense. They aren't mine. Maybe I am crazy. Or losing my mind. But I don't have anything to measure it by. They say crazy people don't think they are crazy. But when I catch a glimpse of a nightmare scene I think … maybe I am.
I am Kazantzakis Zorbas. Kaz.
Who that is, I don't yet know.
All I do know is the little bit of me that holds memory … I can't lose it. I feel as though my life is sand and the tighter I try to hold to it, the quicker it seeps through my fingers. In the end all I hold is a residue of dirt and grime where the sand once was.
Maybe that is all that is left of me, a residue of dirt and grime. But I want more. Yet I know not if I deserve it. Who am I? Where do I come from? What will I become? I don't know. Maybe my future self will have the answers. Maybe you, the person who snatched this from my grave, will know. May your legs grow together you thieving grave robber.
Unless it's old me. Then just remember not to drink a lot before bed. Don't piss yourself. Unless you have a hot nurse to clean you up.
I hope to make more of these. If I don't, well, I guess that was the end of my story. And
that sucks.
