Molecules (my first official piece of experimental fiction)

Euclid’s Definition 1: A line is a length without breadth.

When I look into the mirror, I see a silhouette—blank and cast only by a breadthless black line. A line without breadth, yet with more space between than universes apart.


Euclid’s Definition 3: And the extremities of a line are points.

How many single lines woven together form one arm? One arm, my arm, an extremity baring a strawberry patch of track marks. Cold, metallic, needle puncturing my skin, taking life and giving it. Fill my veins black. Black is blank—blank as a heroin nod, teetering on the edge of life and death. The distance between life and death is a line without breadth.


Euclid’s Common Notion 1: Things equal to the same thing are also equal to one another.

Life equals death and death equals life, a state of consciousness separated only by different realms. A vacant space denoting everything I am and was will form, and I will be—nothing. A vacant space of life and death and nothingness, only patterns of many lines and points. Dirty points in a sharps container and track mark lines and I am off to the needle exchange to give life for death.

If when I die I leave a molecular trace of metal activity, physical actions, and a complete record of states of being, and if when I die I am nullified, then it seems my identity crisis is greater than once thought: How can a conflict between my social role and my personality weigh so much when I become so little?

Euclid’s Common Notion 3: And if equal things are subtracted from equal things, then the remainders are equal.

I witnessed today my reflection, upon a lake of metallic electricity, baring the same measure of expression as a marionette—and just as dead.

I shall pay attention for just one more moment. I shall look upon my countenance. I shall try to remember who I was. And yet, the recollection continues to escape that which I wish to foment into identity, as to measure who I was through the displacement of light: instead, the Voice has formed a symbiotic relationship with life and death, lending to my nose only the sweet fragrance of rose petals glistening with morning spring’s dew and the fumes of formaldehyde steeping in my nasal cavity. I ask only one question: must I accept and live within the abscess of aloneness in order to survive this calling?

I have been struggling with an identity crisis. And ever since the Voice awakened, I have been slipping further from regaining the me I once was.

It is easier to find your way back to the light when you are swimming in darkness, for the displacement of light makes itself appear ever brighter if it should so choose to make visible its ember. And so, I choose to gauge the tangibility and distance of who I once was through the burden of this darkness the Voice has forced upon me: images, utterances, and other deathly fantasies destined to be written down—a feeling much like an owl losing her young to the universe’s ever thirsting tummy.


Euclid’s Common Notion 4: And things coinciding with one another are equal to one another.

The second my consciousness is severed from my soul, a vacant space denoting everything I am and was will form, and I will be—nothing.




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