Tuesday, May 31, 2011

We Have Sailed Many Days

We're in Hope Township now. It's...actually pleasant. Not quite what I expected.

Actually, I don't know what I expected. Usually, the places we go are hospitals or asylums, places that reek of disinfectant and despair. We hardly ever go to places like this.

Looks like we came before the event, too. Whatever it will be. We've been asking around, but nothing strange has happened so far. We took a look at the Land of Make Believe, but it looked like a perfectly normal amusement park. Apparently, it's supposed to be "safe and wholesome recreation," but somehow, I don't think they have control over what frightens little children. I used to be scared to death of the Teacups at Disneyland. Spinning at high velocity, afraid that at any moment you might let go and be flung off into the sky.

Frank is being more silent than usual. He told me he wouldn't be mad if I wrote about the Incident, but maybe he is. It used to be the secret that held us together, but it's not really a secret anymore. And it never was -- Mister Boots knew about it without even asking us. He knew where to find us, who we were, everything.

"There are more out there," he told us. "You will find those who have survived encounters with them. People like you."

People like us. That's what hooked Frank, I think. Find more people like us. Make sure we weren't crazy. Make sure none of this was happening in our heads.

Sorry. I started talking about how pleasant this town was and ended up talking about insanity.

I read this poem back in college. It don't remember who it was written by, but it kind of stuck in my head. The last verse especially:
Whoever is downcast or solemn,
   Whoever is gleeful and glad,
Are only the dupes of delusions -
   We are all of us--all of us mad.
Sometimes I think about that when we're driving in lonely roads, with nothing but the static in between radio stations to fill the silence. Why are we doing this? Well, we are all of us mad.
-- Carol Baker

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