vineeth.ca

Somewhere Only We Know

a man begins to fall apart, and so the world fears that he has started dying. a railroad is built in his body, and the railworkers apply the model they used on Canada’s railway to ship in all the chemicals needed to bridge separated parts of his self together. the problem does not cease, and instead booms, and there is sporadic division. and so the railworkers apply the same old model they used on Canada’s railway to ship in chemicals, except this time the vision is much bolder. they envision the roads as a glue himself to prevent separation of that which has yet to separate. bold indeed. as if it is the roads in the suburbs that keep my model house attached to the city, as if otherwise there would cease to be a link and as if the area itself would otherwise be divided into separate city states. back to the small armies and local taxes where the incense is burned for all our differing brands of fiction. i digress. so the glue is applied and the self becomes sticky. but too much glue is applied that mobility is restricted and while he is still very much, by definition, alive, he appears to be, in terms of capability to express himself, dead. in the process of preventing further separation, the glue has prevented further anything. and so while the medical community enjoys the success of reaching its goal, there is a new hurdle to overcome. but by this time the press has already taken their photos of this railway, and the news is out! the separation has stopped, and he still lives! and so the world, the nation, the little city state, the neighbourhood, the hospital staff, his dry-cleaner, and his family all celebrate! success, they cry! success! and so together, they plan a grand celebration. cartons of beer, confetti, and cake mix (essentials for any grand celebration*) are shipped in. and so the world, the nation, the little city state, the neighbourhood, the hospital staff, his dry-cleaner and his family all quietly gather outside the curtains that shield his hospital bed from the outside world. and a pact is made for no one to enter the curtains that keep him fenced out until they hear him stir. and as he lies on his bed, railways carrying goods in and out of his body, preserving his body, keeping him alive, they wait patiently. but he does not stir. and so the curtains are never breached. fear not, he is alive. but he cannot think, he cannot smile, he cannot move. the railroads have made him a fiction.

his body is a fiction.