Sasha - 500 word story

“It was the rain that started it”.

At least, that’s what people say. If you ask around, you will encounter people who say that it wasn’t the rain at all – or if it was, we started it. They say that we went too far, probed too much, and failed to see what was obvious and right in front of us. At the time, I think they called that “not seeing the forest for the trees”. Only there aren’t a lot of trees anymore, are there?

I nodded, not really caring, and tired of the same old story being repeated to me as if it was fact. No-one really knew. No-one really cared any more. The reason had failed to hold any significance, like a message in a bottle washed up on a faraway shore so distantly removed from the home and place and context of its sender that the message no longer made sense, nor mattered to anyone who may choose to read it.

In my world, the story did not count so much as the context.

A world with less trees, a world with less life is not a world that we were supposed to be part of. What of those old textbook ideas like “simulacra”? “Biodiversity” “ecosystem” “web of life”. They are almost the tagline for a stand-up comedy hour now. Shorn of meaning and context, they are a parody of what was in a world that no longer is. Boudrillard may have been a prophet but in reality, he was a bastard. Why prophesy doom? Is that the true role of a prophet? Cassandra was killed for it. Or was it that she was driven mad? Either way, a true prophet points us forward – they drive us into the future because the future is better than the now that we live in.

Sasha never really understood. Nobody did. We aren’t interested in the truth any more, just false justifications for a present that our past selves never aimed at. The moment was what the moment is.

That’s the mantra. That’s the chant. And I can follow the crowd when necessity calls for it. Aim to please, and spread the love. Not the mantra but my words. A curse of reading textbooks no-one reads anymore.

There is a problem with knowing what others don’t. Even if you are wrong, even if you are following your own deluded pathway to oblivion - the rule is that you don’t share. But I am going to share, and it’s you who I’m going to share with. This is my story. My life. My world and my thoughts. If you don’t like it then you are free to go fuck yourself. If you do like it then welcome to my world. Make yourself comfortable, grab a seat and lean back for a while, as I regale you with tales of my inner self.

For good, bad, evil, better or worse, it’s all I have, and there’s no-one else I can share it with. So it’s just me and you, Dear Diary.