Wistful (Updated)

Three years ago I had a life. The world had a life. A series of flashes put those to rest, though, and now the only time I see greenery—or a smile—are in my dreams, or maybe my preferred reality, it's impossible to say.

I wonder, are there any others? Any other lone monuments to the world as it was? The world is still a changing one, but it has nowhere left to go. We can only look back as we wander these barren wastes doing little more than prolonging our extinction, stopping the Earth from being just another of the millions of lifeless orbs free-falling through the universe. At night, though, when a look skyward shows the full splendor of creation, the planet gets life breathed into it. The reminiscing remnants of the world close their eyes, and turn back the clocks.

In my dreams I stride with ghosts through constructs that are now little more than ionized dust. I watch photosynthesis before my eyes and listen to the words of people I hardly knew, though they exist in their entirety somewhere, not yet completely lost. I use my five senses to remind my waking self of what I have lost, that I may never forget.

How I wish so fervently I were mad, insane, whatever word best describes a detachment from reality. How wondrous it would be if I were insane and my dreams were my reality, and that when I woke up the next day I was asleep in the still-living world. That's impossible, though. My dreams are fractured, translucent. Imperfect.

They are not good enough to drive me insane.

So with this unwanted thorough grasp on reality I walk. I always walk. Sometimes alone. Sometimes in ruins with the dust of others. Sometimes in a green park with the love of my life on my arm. I am always walking, putting something at my back, that I may reach something worth not passing by.

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He awoke facing the sun lazing high in the gray sky, tinges of copper sparkling as rays of light filtered through the thick cloud bands A groan escaped his lips as he sat up and rubbed a hand through his hair, flicking dirt into the air. With a click of his tongue he leaned back onto his hands and brushed the brim of a hat. He glanced at the hat and looked past it at a dead campfire.

“Son of a--” He trailed off, unable to shake the feeling of deja vu that overtook him at the sight of the abandoned campsite. Another thought that buzzed in his brain was the nagging feeling that something was missing to complete the feeling. Something wasn't there.

Someone wasn't there

“Who?” He asked the air, receiving nothing more than brief gusts in response. Standing up, he gazed out over the wasteland that expanded in all directions, the skeletal remnants of interstate highways tracing a spiderweb across the horizon.

With a last cursory glance at the dead fire, he put on the hat, rolled up his sleeping back, and struck out west, away from the midday sun.

The sunlight beat down on his back, but the hat did it's job. He thanked whoever left it there for him as the feel of loosely pack sand gave way to hard asphalt. He looked both ways down the two-lane highway he arrived at. The asphalt stretched infinitely in both directions, each way equally devoid of any vehicles, let alone anything living.

He gave each way a glance multiple times, unable to gain a bearing on what had to be the largest decision he was going to make for the rest of his life...literally.

The pockets on his khaki cargo pants were soon turned out, all of them emptied and their contents scattered at his feet. In seconds a leather wallet, a double-headed quarter, and a rosary sat in a heap, and he scooped them up in his hands. He thumbed open the wallet and was met by a man with short, brown hair, a thin face, and an awkward smile on his face. The words “New York” were emblazoned above the picture and underneath it a string of information.

“David Welles.” He read aloud, then felt his face with his free hand. The features his fingers brushed over were reflected in the pictures. With a flick of his wrist the picture flipped over, and was replaced by a small snapshot of the same man smiling with his arms around a woman's waist. The woman's calm smile and emerald eyes stood out starkly against her dark blonde hair and black dress, which overlapped on his own black tuxedo. The picture was burnt and warped at the edges, and lines of meticulously applied scotch tape mended tears that crawled along the surface.

The wallet closed with a light slap and he turned his attention to the double sided coin. On one end the engraving was cut over with a familiar shape. After a few seconds, the memory finally surfaced and he matched the symbol in front of him to that of the zodiac constellation Pisces. Satisfied, he slipped the tip of his thumb under the coin and flipped it high in the air. He watched the disc spin in the air and then fall to the ground with a flat thud. He looked down into the dirt at his feet and stared at the Pisces-engraved side. The head of the symbol pointed to the left, and he plucked it from the ground wordlessly before turning left and strolling down the road. His boots clicked on the pavement and echoed into the passing breezes.

Quite profound and well written. You use some mature tactics in your writing and that is very evident. I can see this being an entry in some sort of mental journal I would have liked to have. Is this based on reality or is it entirely questionable fiction? Either way, it is just as enjoyable. I hope to read more intellectual and philosophical thoughts from you.

And as a side note, enjoy your soon to be achieved elite status.

Thanks, for both the review and early congrats (not to mention the praise I should be handing back to you for reviewing so much of what is put on the sub-forum).

In response to your critique, I'm unsure whether my style is mature or not, but if it came off as so then I figure it complements to serious mentality of the piece anyway, so thanks.

As for the inspiration behind the piece, it is not rooted in my actual life at all. I have my regrets sure, but nothing worth penning down. The foundation of this piece actually lies in the theory behind the psychological "renewal" brought about by an apocalyptic scenario, and to highlight that the world so many hate is still wonderful and the only one of its kind (as far as we know). Too many people hate the world for how amazing and unique it is. With all the fancy words and such cast aside, the base notion is quite simple:

Like anything else the world and its civilizations are under-rated, and we will only appreciate them when they're gone.

A thought that will continuously and inevitably plague our kind for as long as we exist. However, if we begin to realize this and appreciate what we can, we are the ones who will truly benefit and learn from each and every blessed act that comes our way...Or so one would hope. I've longed tried to do just that when I've suffered from illness. I longed to appreciate simply the days when I was normal and vowed to do just that, but even on realization, it is a challenge that will likely be prevalent my whole life. But I'm not too worried about that, for isn't the journey more worthwhile than the end goal on certain occasions?

Thank you for instigating the philosophical topic, as I enjoy reveling in most more than anything. Likely, that is what caused my appreciation for writing and how I can appreciate it in all forms. I am prevalent in responding because I believe the author, whoever they are, will enjoy and benefit from it and that is enough to persuade me to post. Although I will admit many of my comments would seem hollow in comparison to your's, I rely on the fact it may still be beneficial even if I cannot see as deeply as you may, for example, on Zeph's writing. That may be because I haven't seen any of his previous writing, but it is quite honorable for me to be in the presence of one who is more advanced than I in that area. I hope to learn a lot from you in terms of critiquing, while it would appear all I can do is praise.

Your writing is undoubtedly mature as you utilize advanced tactics like double or elongated hyphens, one I'm not exactly comfortable with just yet because of lack of understanding and practice (alongside semicolons). I unfortunately love to abuse the comma, however, and although it's not deplorable, it is prevalent. I also need to improve upon my vocabulary and further than the SAT standard; more likely a GRE standard. But that is my personal status and the difficulties I am working over. Reading will help me in that, especially reading from one more advanced than myself. So, I do look forward to reading your works as I may speak prophetically in intellectual appearance, but I would like to improve. So, thank you, I guess is where I'm going with that, haha.

I don't think I can see anything deeper in these works that you fail to see, I just think that we're looking from different angles. You take what is honestly the better role, providing praise, demonstrating that you read the work and can give detailed reviews, and in all probably driving the authors of these myriad pieces to continue to try.

I on the other hand am the black sheep of the two of us. I rarely comment and what I put is usually negative and probably sounds pompous. I say what I say to help but at its core the words themselves are still negative.

Don't discount yourself to me when we both play separate roles in all this.

What a peculiar short...Highly interesting, though did warrant a few re-reads for certain paragraphs at the beginning. Slightly confused at the start, I did have a question as it neared the end. Did the man find his own forgotten items because of the reflected physical features? In which case, if he has amnesia, will he stumble upon that campsite again, hence the 'deja vu' feel? I doubt that much if he's moving in one general direction, but the theory was amusing. I liked it overall.

One talent I'd like to get better at that's shown in this story is the art of writing through the absence of description. I used to hate lack of description in writing but I have a friend who showed me it can mean that much more for the reader if they imagine things on their own. This story reminded me of that.