It was just a spark at first, a collection of thoughts lodged into the brain. A small spark of light, the ideas wanting to be written by a skillful hand and made complete by a sharp mind. The spark had technically found what others termed it’s voice, a part of the creature’s being, so to speak. All it needed to be was completed, with a body.
Doctor Oswald “Oz” Acelacen scribbled furiously in the middle of the night, knowing something itched at the back of his mind driving him nuts for most of the day. He secretly wrote three feminine names thinking about adopting a child one day; if she was blank, he would christen her (oddly enough) Nemesis Akemi Mielli. That was, by a weird coincidence, the project name as well. This will be my brainchild on paper that I will take care to cherish and nurture and complete. His colleagues didn’t want to bother their white-haired, red eyed albino friend who had a penchant for wearing sunglasses and hats indoors, weird hats and even weirder sunglasses. He would start with a mind first out of the simplest of things, but first his mind needed some chicken soup in the forms of Nietzsche, Kurzweil, Jung and Proust before really bogging down to it, reading to the sounds of rain coming from outside, seeing glimpses of the rivulets of water from the windows of his office cubicle at AustIr Tech & Weapons Industry, marvelling partially at the spectacle created by nature. Too bad it’s nothing compared to science, and anyway, God is dead! he chuckled at the little thought that he himself made, knowing that it was only a matter a time before they found out too.His project didn’t actually start here though, it started long before this; it starts with a bit of his life… when was it…? Ah yes, that poem, that vivid dream. The night of the sleepless, the hot day, the pile of paperwork and testing… and the headache.
Day’s weary traveller, walking down the road alone,
whose feet tire, and spirit ragged to ruin.
who wish nothing but rain in this desert of monotony to see and feel,
who wish for grass and to rest away your pains seated at the heel.
I, Morpheus bid you welcome,
come, come! To this land of slendour and of sleep.
to dream, to dream.
dreams is what manure is to the plants,
inspiration and this too keep man from freezing in one rickety stance.
It is the feeder of the mind,
now leave everything behind.
The girl, he remembered as he wrote endlessly during the empty office lunchtime was slender, had long and awfully straight electric green hair with cheek length side-cut bangs and a frontal fringe, wore a tight dress with exaggerated snap cuffs that stuck out, with silver buttons that started from an open slit (which was open from the bottom of her neck to the start of her chest) and went downwards and was finished off with a very short silver tie lined with black and silver embellishments here and there. Her legs were clad in fishnets and high heeled, knee high boots with belt-and-buckle motifs. She was a ghost to the rest of the world, but not to him. He woke up that night, sweating and breathless at remembering the colour of her eyes, the opposite of his: azurite. Yes, he’ll have get all of this down, every single important detail to create, to make imaginary things into reality by himself, for himself and… for Her. The Musing-One of his Dreamworld, the one with the perfection of a porcelain thing, brought to life in the domain of strangeness.