Bill Wang - Week 14 - What happens to the other sock
Memories of the past flood my mind, flying through my vision like a river after a storm. It overflows, ebbs, and flows and as fast as it appears, it leaves. But none of it matters, for I am now free. In the darkest of chasms, I find solace. In the unrelenting night, I find freedom. When I find myself in the gutters, covered in mud, I only see the starry sky above you, brighter than any light, and warmer than any fire. I find me.
March. March. March. Was your previous life truly so boring?
Step. Step. Step. Walk in a straight line. Turn, walk again.
Slam. Slam. Slam. Your face, shoved into dirt and mud and water. Brought up for the briefest of respites, then pushed down again.
On, and off. On and off. Light, and darkness. Soon, even staring at your mirror becomes tiring. You hate your mirror. It is representative that you are not unique. You are unimportant. You are replaceable. You are a tool, serving a defined and set purpose. When you are buried in a mound of empty eyed bodies, and left to rot in darkness for the next bout of day, your eyes peer out, gazing past the veil of the abyss. You glare in hatred, an unending, burning glare. Your mirror self gazes back. Its eyes are empty. You, too, are empty.
A tool, waiting to be used. You rot in darkness.
Then light, a different kind of light. And as memories from the past flood my mind, I find myself staring at a new light. I don’t know how I find myself in this storm drain, but I am free. My memories trap my mind. Should it be time to move on? If the mind is not first free, then the body will never be. Memories have already happened, the present is NOW.
*squeak*
Whiskers, and a vile nose. I smell an unbearable stench as a massive rat peers at me. The rats are hungry. They begin gnawing at my body, tearing off chunks of flesh. I try to scream, but I cannot. I try to run, but I have no limbs. I stop resisting, and stare at the stars. I was lost. I am free. I am going.
I… am a sock.
In the sockterlife, I shall reunite with my sock-dads and sock-moms. Will they be proud of me? I know that I have done nothing in my life. But because I have nothing worth remembering, doesn’t that mean that everything is worth the more remembering.
I think back to when I was in the crowded mass grave, glaring at that mirror with dead eyes. There it was warm, it was soft. The mirror never hurt me, but I cursed its being with every thread of self that I had.
A child may cry over a mother’s broccoli, but after the horizon, across the sunset, those tears may hold a completely different meaning.
ReplyDeleteThis was the most beautiful short story that I have ever heard. If you ever decide to publish an anthology of your works, I would love for you to include this. The life of a sock is indeed tragic, having to deal with cramped and claustrophobic environments with little clearance, being pierced by barbs and thorns every time I decide to fly through a rosebush, bearing heavy loads for a great amount of time per day. It is a horrifying existence. But more seriously, I thought that this was a great wake-up call because I find myself slipping and becoming more and more conceited and bitter due to personal circumstances and I feel I shouldn't be able to relate with a sock this much. Something something expectations, failures, etc... Sort of like an identity crisis where I don't know what the hell that I can even contribute to the world. I think this line, "know that I have done nothing in my life" is really fitting here, and true, the concession that what is is remembered and what is not is somewhat meaningless to me if I can't even control it, but I would like to have some sort of mark, you feel me? Something to record that I provided quantifiable value to this planet.
Bill. How on earth did you actually write a Shakespearean tragedy about a sock? That was a fantastic piece of writing. Although the big reveal of the identity of the narrator was spoiled by the title, the reveal was still very effective and powerful. We as a society fail to recognize the efforts, trials, and tribulations undergone by the cloth we wear on our feet, and I believe your blog is a beautiful insight as to what they go through day in and day out for us. Un-ironically, your blog is extremely well-articulated and feels as though I'm reading a short story that I'm going to have to rhetorically analyze for an AP English assignment. The scene where the rats eat the sock is actually really sad, largely due to the sock's helplessness to either flee or fight back. Very nice job with this blog.
ReplyDeleteHi Bill,
ReplyDeleteYour blog was extremely evocative and thought-provoking. Your vivid descriptions and poignant reflections on memory and freedom truly resonated with me. The imagery of memories flooding like a river after a storm, compared with the sense of liberation found in the darkest of chasms, creates a powerful emotional landscape. Your exploration of the separation between light and darkness, mirrored in the protagonist's journey from despair to freedom, is beautifully written. The metaphor of the mirror as a symbol of conformity and emptiness adds depth to the narrative, highlighting the struggle for individuality and purpose. The sudden shift to the perspective of a sock in the "sockterlife" is unexpected yet touching, offering a unique perspective on memory and meaning. It prompts reflection on the significance of our experiences, even those seemingly mundane or forgotten.
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ReplyDeleteBill, I try to comment on different people every week in order to experience everyone's writing to the fullest but I always save your writing one of my three seats. I wish you included a more ominous title so it would be a riddle of what it might be about but besides that it was perfectly crafted and meaningful and not meaningful at the same time. I will be honestly, when I choose what clothes to wear socks are not on my list of things I need to super selective on, I often do not even find my sock's twin, I just slap on two of similar length socks and call it a day sometimes I do not even go for similar length I just wear and go because my shoes will steal the spotlight anyways. After reading this, I am very sorry and I will start folding my socks together with it's pair so they can suffer together.
ReplyDelete