Better Information Retention

 

It was cold- the blackness behind me had become more of a uniform pain than the sharp, stabbing, tearing pain I had been experiencing for the past few minutes. My arms and legs, around me, were numb and strength was seeping out of them. I didn't know if this was a dream or a nightmare, but it felt very real and I was sure that I would never wake up from this one. I had always known that I was better than my anger, better than my revenge. But I did not expect myself to be such a lousy shot. I had failed miserably, at least in the eyes of everyone watching. Now, lying on the cold concrete, I could feel my life draining out of me. I felt the last flashes of warmth and life leave my body, flowing out of the hole I had created, until it was just a gaping hole.

I could feel my insides loosen and turn to mush. The pain was reaching its final crisis, although it was not ceasing. There was just one instant where no-one could see it. My eyes snapped open. But there was no sight in front of me, just an endless, flat, grayness. I raised my hands and waved them out, trying to search for the people that had to be somewhere around me. The cold didn't bother me, but this time, there was no soothing warmth to warm me, no comforting and familiar voice telling me that I was being superfluous and that I was failing. No- this time, I was the worst mistake.

Finally, I spotted a figure. People were huddling around a lifeless figure of a man. He had been lying on the ground, but was now crawl all over. It was then that I recognised the man's face. I had seen him somewhere before, although I couldn't remember what. The man- the man of my dreams- was still there, somewhere. I had always known that I was better than my anger; why then, had I succumbed to the anger itself? I knew that I was better than my anger.

I tried to move up, to stand to, but my body was too heavy. I was lying on my back and just could not lift up. The man of my dreams had come up to me, He placed a hand on my forehead and I felt a strange tingling sensation. This was the opposite of the pain I had been experiencing, this was the reverse. This was not just numbness anymore, this sensation was a feeling of awakening.

That's when I came to the first revelation. I was not the best person I could be. I could only imagine how many people had been victimised by my actions. This had to stop and I wasn't going to let anyone else commit the same folly that I had committed. I didn't want to be the person whose actions were as a result of his anger. This was the last time I was going to let anger sway my actions. I knew I had to throw myself in the longest, darkest well and sink to the bottom. And then I would rise, as the phoenix I was.

My eyes snapped open and I could see a brilliant white light- a light that was unwavering, like my soul, a light that was pure white, like my bones. I rose to my feet and looked around, taking in the surroundings. I had been reborn. There was a woman standing near me. She was young, slim and regal. She had long, straight black hair that fell to her waist. She had a full body and wore simple, yet elegant, green robes, adorned with some ornaments. The cloth of her robes was stitched with gold that was shining and she had a diadem on her head.

I eyed her up and down. She was extremely beautiful and she was putting me at a loss for words. She was draped in a light green cloak, stepped forward towards me and said, ' Fear not. I am Demeter, goddess of all crops, of the harvest and of fertility. Welcome, Achilles. In this place, you will find peace, happiness, calm and everlasting solace.'

I looked at her in wonder. I felt awe and welcome. This was the woman who was teaching me how to live my life, how to be reborn. I started walking towards her, I was basking in her aura. Was she going to teach me how to help people?

' Welcome.' She said again. She took my left hand and I felt a soft radiance engulf my body. It was exhilarating. It was the finest, purest feeling I had ever felt.

'You will learn how to heal those you have wounded and how to give the ones you love the best of what they deserve.' She said, uttering her wisdom, filling me with a sense of foreboding.

Conclusion

My life was turned upside down and I was on the brink of death. In fact, I had died many times. But I was always pulled back to life, to the reality of the situation. Life is not going to throw you a helping hand, it is going to make you try, to rise above your expectations, to work for those you love, to succeed and to let go of a

Once upon a time, I was a god. And I made a promise to a goddess that, in the course of my powers, I would cure them of my failure. In that time I suffered an existential crisis; I knew I was superior. Yet, I had irrevocably failed. My death would be relived, again and again, taking away my life and my peace forever.

In the lonely heat of the plains of Jerusalem, I waited for someone to arrive and change my fate. The Tel Aviv Museum was a quiet, comfortable place. With a hint of the medieval music that had been playing there for decades, a sweet perfume had wafted from somewhere inside the museum. There, on a wall, was a shiny, glass case, containing the collection of the museum. It was a collection that people had made over the years, always hoping for some sort of immortality to be bestowed upon them.

Some people hoped for a penny, a lottery ticket, a contribution to a web page. Yet many of them wished for something more. Some wished for a moment of exposure, something that would drum up business or fame, while others wished to be immortalized as a man on a bridge, eager to jump in. Many of these people had committed suicide. The different cases of suicides are displayed on the walls of the museum.

It was a large collection, of a history of suicide, but the museum had neither a collection of homicides, nor a collection of peace. It was ironic, for the museum was titled 'The History of Israel.'

One of the many cases was that of a man named Paulo. I did not recall the name but if there was a person who made a living out of art, it was Paulo. Paulo was a sculptor, a very famous if not influential, sculptor. His works ranging from art for foreign dignitaries to homes were very famous and kept high pride in many adoring fans.

I was under the impression that Paulo had no family. But, it seemed that he had a daughter. She was a student of French linguistics. She was my half sister. I knew that she had been kept captive in a mental institution and that she had attempted suicide several times. My mother, who was a psychiatrist, had begged the hospital officials to release her but the daughter stayed on, until she was safe.

How she had ended up in that state of mental confusion, was a complete and utter mystery. The world had been turned upside down by her. She suffered some sort of breakdown. I was going to change all that. I remember being told that Paulo was looking for me. He had passed away a year before I was born.

Why were there no other collection of someone who had killed a family? I never really knew why but it seemed that in the times of desperation, a lone person had killed a whole family, and so he was imprisoned. Yet, he was never made to suffer the most gruesome prisons, he was just captured and locked up. He was a man of few words, a man who spouted the most horrible things to those he had been tied upon and a man who looked at death, with his eyes fixed on you so that you could not look away.

His eyes, had been the most horrible thing about him. He looked at you and you knew that he had seen your body. He looked at you and you knew that he had seen every part of you. In a way, he looked at you and you knew that he knew everything about you, before you, yourself knew. He looked at you and you knew, in your soul, that life was not meant to be.

There were other cases, over the years, of murderers and suicides. There were the unsolved mysteries of murders in the walls of the museum.ll the things that are holding you back. All the normal ideas people have about life I have realised that these ideas are outdated.