99 Vhalar, 723
.
Being witness to a death was never easy. To Kotton, even animals were considered ‘someone’ and not ‘something’. He believed they held a soul and/or consciousness, a cognition of their own. It didn’t matter what others thought- souls existed and they experienced and lived.
The first time he had seen an animal die was when he was seven. It was a squirrel, a little forest creature with tiny eyes, ears, and a nose that twitched in regard to the smells that populated his environment. Kotton had held the creature in his hands as it's breathed withered and eventually ceased altogether. He would never forget when it had jolted vigorously, its muscles spasming as if dispelling the very last movements of its life in one final show.
Someone had shot it for fun- target practice he had later learned. His father had yelled at him to drop the ‘putrid thing’ for fear that it carried disease, but Kotton couldn't have cared less. He valued being next to someone in need of comfort, even if the squirrel was unable to think with enough intelligence to understand Kotton’s presence as one of consolation.
Once the animal had stopped its spasming, Kotton had gently set it on the ground. His father reprimanded him for not immediately following his orders, so when Kotton asked if he could bury it, a ceremonious gesture performed for people who had died, his father protested. He was confused as to why an insignificant creature would require a funeral service.
Try as he might, Kotton could never forget that day. Maybe his inborn moral code was too strong. Maybe he thought far too deeply about certain things. Or perhaps his sense of justice and equality spanned further than it rightfully should. But who was to dictate the potency, the accuracy of one's perspective in regards to the idea of respect?
Later that same night and after having been denied the request of giving the squirrel a proper burial a second time, Kotton snuck out with the intention of giving his animal friend a respectable burial. He dug a foot or so into the earth with his bare hands, and placed the squirrel gingerly into his newly fashioned tome. He didn’t care if his father found out about it the next day. His heart was no longer weighted with concern. He felt satisfied, the belief that what he had done was the right thing to do. He even washed his hands afterwards, weary of his father’s warning. If no one else would care for the death of a living being, then he surely would.
This simple expression of consideration would follow the young man into his adolescent years. It was a starting point, a small leap into a holy realm of compassion. It was this moment in time that gave way to the development of his stalwart ethic code of moral obligation to equality, fairness, justice and benevolence. If something- nay- someone was breathing, moving and thinking, it deserved respect no matter the cost.
Presently, Kotton was gazing at his plate of leafy greens. He sighed with delectation. Lifting a fork full of lettuce to his mouth, he began to chew. He didn’t regret the choices he had made in a time where he was young and immature. He had faith in what he had done and what he was currently doing and vivaciously believed that what he was doing was still the right thing to do.
After finishing his dinner, Kotton brought his empty plate to the kitchen sink. There was no motivation to wash it, so there it was sat amongst the other dirty dishes in the basin of the sink. He watched residual bubbles travel toward the remnants of the salad. They reminded him of something, something that forced his diaphragm to heave a chuckle, but he was ever so unprepared to pinpoint as to the reason why. A few solitary moments passed before a venture was made toward the living room couch.
All this thinking of the past, of morals and belief, had quickly put a damper on his mood. He always appreciated when his psychological and philosophical side announced themselves- there was always a reason- but it was consistently a double-edged sword. Whilst he was overjoyed with the opportunity to discover the deeper sides of human nature, that very nature often swayed like the wind toward the disheartening.
Kotton grabbed the first most pillow beside him and held it tightly to his chest. Sometimes thinking about the abysmal made him hear with more clarity- theoretically that is. There was this high pitched ringing, an intonation that bordered along the line of annoyance, of a screeching so deafening it couldn’t be quieted. It's demand was to be heard and it would not cease without having been listened to. To be heard was less to do with the ears and more with the heart, something Kotton had taken the time to master.
He drew in a weary breath. His eyes itched with the incursion of salted water. Blinking away the tears he dared not use his hands for fear that by doing so would make real the fact that he was indeed on the brink of crying.
Straightaway did he sit up as straight as possible. To hell with this noise, he protested with resolute confidence. He pushed away the pillow he held dear and sought to negate the fragile masculinity that wafted through his mind. In its stead, he put his negative energy to better use. Kotton reached for the journal that rested long untouched on the coffee table and retrieved the pencil that was always placed in its vicinity. Turning to an arbitrary but unsullied page, he wrote,
‘There was an undocumented creature that had crash landed from some other world beyond the sky. He had defied the concern he held toward the exploration of a new world, holding true to his unabashed sense of bravery, and courageously venturing outside the domain of his comfort.'
Wait- this was something he had written before, was it not? Hadn't he crafted a comparible tale about an alien experiencing a world of unknown origin? Perhaps this was a motif that transcended along the lines of personal fulfillment and regurgitation. Neverthless, his mind was on a role.
'The individuals he met were strange, unpredictable. They pointed fingers at him, laughed, and spoke in hushed tongues whenever he trekked near.
Shame was a universal emotion, and thus, was not foreign to him. He felt it in great volume. But he also felt despair. Why was he viewed as an outcast? Why was he seen as an enemy? Was it solely because he was visually unlike any other commoner? He had already seen a myriad of different races, and they all had been individuals of vastly antithetical appearances. Was it because he was one of a kind? Was the unknown to be feared in this world? He admired the erroneously preconceived theory of being viewed as rare and special, but he doubted that was the reason for all the staring and hushed murmurs.
Everywhere he turned he felt the creeping gaze of suspicious eyes latching onto him. And they were always gazes of distrust, of doubt and uncertainty. The discovery of back alleyways and unlit paths offered comfort, but it didn’t seem fair. The unknown should not be viewed with dread, but with curiosity instead, with intrigue and the need to uncover and discover alternative forms of life.'
Kotton was getting a little poetic there. He paused to reflect on his most recent ramblings, but was disoriented by the fact that the sun had set more rapidly than anticipated. He fumbled around in the drawer of the side table to his right. Soon thereafter, he presented a match box. He scored the phosphorus with the head of the match and concurrently became mesmerised by the flame that manifested. It was several seconds before he could redirect his focus back to the coffee table where he bent toward one of the many candles that adorned its wooden surface. He lowered the match, picking one of the many scents and touched the fire to the wick of a candle. He watched as it was set ablaze. A calmness erupted from the depths of his chest, forcing a strained exhaled that nearly made him choke.
Deficient of concentration, Kotton’s glazed eyes scoured the flame. He thoughtfully observed the flickering triangle of heat, noting its smooth and wavering dance until it very nearly burned him as it consumed the rest of the viable wooden part of the match. Kotton instinctively blew it out before casually leaning himself against the back of the couch. The scorch of the wick uttered an inkling of reassurance. The vibrant redness bobbed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, surrendering Kotton’s attentiveness to its uniquely subconscious manipulation of meditation.
Several minutes passed before his eyes blurred and burned with the desire to blink. It was back to his writing after that. Although, he couldn’t exactly get the image of the flame out of his mind. It was so life-like, almost like it was breathing, living, as it flickered with a component of biology that was analogous to the survival of a functioning entity.
‘It wasn’t until the undocumented creature came across a man without a home that his pessimistic view of this strange world changed. The homeless man had experienced a hard life for longer than the last several cycles. He had witnessed unfairness, poverty, death and disparity and all of these encounters had left with feelings of worthlessness and cynicism. Although, what he had come to understand was that kindness existed in numerous ways. He saw the undiscovered as an opportunity, a fresh adventure, a channel to new tidings that had yet to be discovered. Above all, the man knew rejection, ostracization, hypocrisy, and inequality and had vowed amongst himself to not to do the same unto others.’
Kotton's brain was in the throes of spontaneously crafting a parallel vision, something having been spurred from his immediate writings. It related to the topic of life and death, of dying and the unknown. It met with the past, and tangled with the present. Whilst he had begun a tangent by describing an alien and the discrimination that had been unjustly decided from ignorance and fear of what was unknown, Kotton's thoughts had swiftly reverted back to the original reason for this solicitous night.
He set his pencil aside and pushed his journal to the far right corner of his coffee table. He would rely on his mental faculties for the remainder of the evening.
The young man engaged his lungs with a revivifying breath. His intention was to reap some manner of organisation from his runaway incongruence of preconception.
He had a hard time accepting other people’s views when it came to life and death. Kotton was not a utilitarian by any means. He wanted the greater good, but not at the expense of an innocent soul. He didn’t want to be a person who refused another's' wishes so if someone desperately desired to help out of the goodness of their soul, who was Kotton to reject such a wish? Even if it made more sense in the presence of doubt to rescue everyone, deep down he was unable to argue against someone who genuinely believed in the righteousness of their course of action. Kotton's beliefs were not the only ones nor were they the indisputable truth; they didn't retain the same unquestionable word of an immortal's.
Everyone held fast to their own faiths. Kotton was respectful of that. To deny someone else’s belief would be to imply that there is one and only one worship and he didn’t believe that. Unfortunately, in the end, the choices you made were never the correct ones, at least not in the experiences Kotton had faced. There was always someone who disagreed. It inevitably came down to your own moral compass, your own guiding heart, and the compassion felt by your own heart- that was what indeterminately made you who you really were.
Do not doubt your decisions. Your first instinct is usually right. Doubting will only lead to a haunting that may last until you die. Confidence is key. Believe in who you are.
This path of thinking insisted on the young man's ability to shut his eyes with ruthlessness. He took a compulsory breath, dubious as to the full potential of the engagement of his lungs, but he did it anyway. It wasn’t the consumption of brain power, but the exhaustion of his heart that poisoned him with such fatigue. His eyes were tired due to the emotional pain that had rattled him.
Kotton needed rest. The couch became without proper announcement the conclusion to his evening. It was the closest object that matched the description of leisure. He laid himself upon the cushions without any additional persuasion and gave into the whisperings of a much needed slumber.
The first time he had seen an animal die was when he was seven. It was a squirrel, a little forest creature with tiny eyes, ears, and a nose that twitched in regard to the smells that populated his environment. Kotton had held the creature in his hands as it's breathed withered and eventually ceased altogether. He would never forget when it had jolted vigorously, its muscles spasming as if dispelling the very last movements of its life in one final show.
Someone had shot it for fun- target practice he had later learned. His father had yelled at him to drop the ‘putrid thing’ for fear that it carried disease, but Kotton couldn't have cared less. He valued being next to someone in need of comfort, even if the squirrel was unable to think with enough intelligence to understand Kotton’s presence as one of consolation.
Once the animal had stopped its spasming, Kotton had gently set it on the ground. His father reprimanded him for not immediately following his orders, so when Kotton asked if he could bury it, a ceremonious gesture performed for people who had died, his father protested. He was confused as to why an insignificant creature would require a funeral service.
Try as he might, Kotton could never forget that day. Maybe his inborn moral code was too strong. Maybe he thought far too deeply about certain things. Or perhaps his sense of justice and equality spanned further than it rightfully should. But who was to dictate the potency, the accuracy of one's perspective in regards to the idea of respect?
Later that same night and after having been denied the request of giving the squirrel a proper burial a second time, Kotton snuck out with the intention of giving his animal friend a respectable burial. He dug a foot or so into the earth with his bare hands, and placed the squirrel gingerly into his newly fashioned tome. He didn’t care if his father found out about it the next day. His heart was no longer weighted with concern. He felt satisfied, the belief that what he had done was the right thing to do. He even washed his hands afterwards, weary of his father’s warning. If no one else would care for the death of a living being, then he surely would.
This simple expression of consideration would follow the young man into his adolescent years. It was a starting point, a small leap into a holy realm of compassion. It was this moment in time that gave way to the development of his stalwart ethic code of moral obligation to equality, fairness, justice and benevolence. If something- nay- someone was breathing, moving and thinking, it deserved respect no matter the cost.
Presently, Kotton was gazing at his plate of leafy greens. He sighed with delectation. Lifting a fork full of lettuce to his mouth, he began to chew. He didn’t regret the choices he had made in a time where he was young and immature. He had faith in what he had done and what he was currently doing and vivaciously believed that what he was doing was still the right thing to do.
After finishing his dinner, Kotton brought his empty plate to the kitchen sink. There was no motivation to wash it, so there it was sat amongst the other dirty dishes in the basin of the sink. He watched residual bubbles travel toward the remnants of the salad. They reminded him of something, something that forced his diaphragm to heave a chuckle, but he was ever so unprepared to pinpoint as to the reason why. A few solitary moments passed before a venture was made toward the living room couch.
All this thinking of the past, of morals and belief, had quickly put a damper on his mood. He always appreciated when his psychological and philosophical side announced themselves- there was always a reason- but it was consistently a double-edged sword. Whilst he was overjoyed with the opportunity to discover the deeper sides of human nature, that very nature often swayed like the wind toward the disheartening.
Kotton grabbed the first most pillow beside him and held it tightly to his chest. Sometimes thinking about the abysmal made him hear with more clarity- theoretically that is. There was this high pitched ringing, an intonation that bordered along the line of annoyance, of a screeching so deafening it couldn’t be quieted. It's demand was to be heard and it would not cease without having been listened to. To be heard was less to do with the ears and more with the heart, something Kotton had taken the time to master.
He drew in a weary breath. His eyes itched with the incursion of salted water. Blinking away the tears he dared not use his hands for fear that by doing so would make real the fact that he was indeed on the brink of crying.
Straightaway did he sit up as straight as possible. To hell with this noise, he protested with resolute confidence. He pushed away the pillow he held dear and sought to negate the fragile masculinity that wafted through his mind. In its stead, he put his negative energy to better use. Kotton reached for the journal that rested long untouched on the coffee table and retrieved the pencil that was always placed in its vicinity. Turning to an arbitrary but unsullied page, he wrote,
‘There was an undocumented creature that had crash landed from some other world beyond the sky. He had defied the concern he held toward the exploration of a new world, holding true to his unabashed sense of bravery, and courageously venturing outside the domain of his comfort.'
Wait- this was something he had written before, was it not? Hadn't he crafted a comparible tale about an alien experiencing a world of unknown origin? Perhaps this was a motif that transcended along the lines of personal fulfillment and regurgitation. Neverthless, his mind was on a role.
'The individuals he met were strange, unpredictable. They pointed fingers at him, laughed, and spoke in hushed tongues whenever he trekked near.
Shame was a universal emotion, and thus, was not foreign to him. He felt it in great volume. But he also felt despair. Why was he viewed as an outcast? Why was he seen as an enemy? Was it solely because he was visually unlike any other commoner? He had already seen a myriad of different races, and they all had been individuals of vastly antithetical appearances. Was it because he was one of a kind? Was the unknown to be feared in this world? He admired the erroneously preconceived theory of being viewed as rare and special, but he doubted that was the reason for all the staring and hushed murmurs.
Everywhere he turned he felt the creeping gaze of suspicious eyes latching onto him. And they were always gazes of distrust, of doubt and uncertainty. The discovery of back alleyways and unlit paths offered comfort, but it didn’t seem fair. The unknown should not be viewed with dread, but with curiosity instead, with intrigue and the need to uncover and discover alternative forms of life.'
Kotton was getting a little poetic there. He paused to reflect on his most recent ramblings, but was disoriented by the fact that the sun had set more rapidly than anticipated. He fumbled around in the drawer of the side table to his right. Soon thereafter, he presented a match box. He scored the phosphorus with the head of the match and concurrently became mesmerised by the flame that manifested. It was several seconds before he could redirect his focus back to the coffee table where he bent toward one of the many candles that adorned its wooden surface. He lowered the match, picking one of the many scents and touched the fire to the wick of a candle. He watched as it was set ablaze. A calmness erupted from the depths of his chest, forcing a strained exhaled that nearly made him choke.
Deficient of concentration, Kotton’s glazed eyes scoured the flame. He thoughtfully observed the flickering triangle of heat, noting its smooth and wavering dance until it very nearly burned him as it consumed the rest of the viable wooden part of the match. Kotton instinctively blew it out before casually leaning himself against the back of the couch. The scorch of the wick uttered an inkling of reassurance. The vibrant redness bobbed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, surrendering Kotton’s attentiveness to its uniquely subconscious manipulation of meditation.
Several minutes passed before his eyes blurred and burned with the desire to blink. It was back to his writing after that. Although, he couldn’t exactly get the image of the flame out of his mind. It was so life-like, almost like it was breathing, living, as it flickered with a component of biology that was analogous to the survival of a functioning entity.
‘It wasn’t until the undocumented creature came across a man without a home that his pessimistic view of this strange world changed. The homeless man had experienced a hard life for longer than the last several cycles. He had witnessed unfairness, poverty, death and disparity and all of these encounters had left with feelings of worthlessness and cynicism. Although, what he had come to understand was that kindness existed in numerous ways. He saw the undiscovered as an opportunity, a fresh adventure, a channel to new tidings that had yet to be discovered. Above all, the man knew rejection, ostracization, hypocrisy, and inequality and had vowed amongst himself to not to do the same unto others.’
Kotton's brain was in the throes of spontaneously crafting a parallel vision, something having been spurred from his immediate writings. It related to the topic of life and death, of dying and the unknown. It met with the past, and tangled with the present. Whilst he had begun a tangent by describing an alien and the discrimination that had been unjustly decided from ignorance and fear of what was unknown, Kotton's thoughts had swiftly reverted back to the original reason for this solicitous night.
He set his pencil aside and pushed his journal to the far right corner of his coffee table. He would rely on his mental faculties for the remainder of the evening.
The young man engaged his lungs with a revivifying breath. His intention was to reap some manner of organisation from his runaway incongruence of preconception.
He had a hard time accepting other people’s views when it came to life and death. Kotton was not a utilitarian by any means. He wanted the greater good, but not at the expense of an innocent soul. He didn’t want to be a person who refused another's' wishes so if someone desperately desired to help out of the goodness of their soul, who was Kotton to reject such a wish? Even if it made more sense in the presence of doubt to rescue everyone, deep down he was unable to argue against someone who genuinely believed in the righteousness of their course of action. Kotton's beliefs were not the only ones nor were they the indisputable truth; they didn't retain the same unquestionable word of an immortal's.
Everyone held fast to their own faiths. Kotton was respectful of that. To deny someone else’s belief would be to imply that there is one and only one worship and he didn’t believe that. Unfortunately, in the end, the choices you made were never the correct ones, at least not in the experiences Kotton had faced. There was always someone who disagreed. It inevitably came down to your own moral compass, your own guiding heart, and the compassion felt by your own heart- that was what indeterminately made you who you really were.
Do not doubt your decisions. Your first instinct is usually right. Doubting will only lead to a haunting that may last until you die. Confidence is key. Believe in who you are.
This path of thinking insisted on the young man's ability to shut his eyes with ruthlessness. He took a compulsory breath, dubious as to the full potential of the engagement of his lungs, but he did it anyway. It wasn’t the consumption of brain power, but the exhaustion of his heart that poisoned him with such fatigue. His eyes were tired due to the emotional pain that had rattled him.
Kotton needed rest. The couch became without proper announcement the conclusion to his evening. It was the closest object that matched the description of leisure. He laid himself upon the cushions without any additional persuasion and gave into the whisperings of a much needed slumber.
