What Is
I am looking for constructive criticism and insightful comments. I like to write but Iâve never really saw myself as someone who shares what heâs written. Iâm only 20 but I feel like Iâve seen and felt enough to finally be pushed to the point to try to be something I am and not something Iâm not. I feel like God has given me a gift to love writing but I know I am not the best writer in the world. I would love feedback and I would love continued support as I find myself as a writer. Someone once told me that there was no point because everything has been written. I thought that was foolish. That seemed to me to be a man without a story. Anyway... hereâs my story.
What Is
By Garrett Giles
       Early dawn lightens the closed shades but the room is pitch black dark. A man lays in bed looking at what we would call the ceiling in the Light. He has a few moments of rest before the day should start but something is jogging his memory. Something provokes his thoughts.
His phone alarm keeps screaming at him to get up on time. The consistency of noise wakes him further into a rage driven mostly by fear to start a new day. The man checks to see if he has messages and notifications but there are none. He then manages to sit up; a body full of aches and pains and experience in the art of living.
A wet corpse stares at the Soul in the mirror. Staring at the eyes, the only place where its stories are told. Souls communicate through the eyes. He learned that because thatâs how stories of the Soul are told. Stories the manâs eyes repeat over and over again like a good novel. A novel full of depth in thought, ideas, emotion, and plotting. A novel full of âwhat ifsâ, dreams, and mystery of the past, present, and future. A novel no one understands, not even the author. But the Soul knows.
He dresses himself, applying the appropriate deodorants and colognes. A comb combs over his hair in the same style as yesterday, and a toothbrush whitens the teeth from the remnants from last nightsâ pizza. He leaves his face unshaved and his bed unmade. Thereâs only time to grab his bag and a couple books before leaving his apartment. All because he wanted a few more moments of rest.
Lecture. Heâs there, listening. Listening to what the soul wants but craves what the body desires. Constantly checking his phone, he only grows lonelier in the hall. A room full of few faces in a room meant for hundreds. Hundreds that are resting. Even the few there he doesnât know. At the end of class, he has no idea how he got his notes all straight. They are clear to him, but he doesnât remember how he managed to write them all down. The mind was molested with material, the soul was crying, and the body killed.
Walking, he checks his phone. Nothing. Nothing but music. He passes more faces, but on the slightest interaction he looks down. Silence of mouth. Neglect of eyes. Hardening of heart. He pours his heart to the lyrics; they seem to understand. The reality of lyrics, though, is that they too search for meaning. They too, serve as a story, but to the ear. The ear that does not listen to the eyes of fellow man, but rather to what the mind wants to hear. The augmented reality created by the bodies longing and the minds joy to create images. The same longing images of a text or a post that denies what souls everywhere are demanding: loves, nurture, attention. Self-loathing is the beast created by the âthreeâ in every heart. He knows it, for it lives in him, but he denies it out of spite in a virtual world.
Spite, the monster created by the Beast of Three. The same beast that has a smorgasbord of faces. Faces that mask Souls. Masks happily worn by those who want to âfake it till they make it.â Where are they making it to? Why are they being fake? Donât they know that the Soul wants more for them? That He intended them to live? The man knows this. The man knows. Yet he denies what he knows. He denies others. He denies himself. He denies He. He denies these things for things. When he doesnât receive he doesnât receive.
The result of this is many: sin. Sin is many. Many is this: darkness, denial, deceit, betrayal, refusal, revoke, anger, hate, brutality, earthliness, lies, adultery, murder, loneliness, spitefulness, bitterness, unhappiness, lust, gluttony, envious, slothfulness, wrath, loathsomeness, evil. Many is the age of technology. Technology is.
We go back to the man. Heâs returned to his apartment when his classes have ended. He does his homework, but then his direction is turned to what is. What is is not what is wanted by the Soul but what is is what is wanted by the soul. The body wants what is. But what is is not what it seems, but rather turn to what is. When no one replies to the message that was seen, when friends ignore that thing that meant so much, or the likes were fewer than expected, what is turns into what is.
âDonât I have friends? 800 in fact?â, âThis person must hate me⊠Well I hate them too!â, âNo one cares⊠No one has said anythingâ, âIf I try later, maybe itâll change?â, âWhere is the unfriend button?â, âAm I alone?â, âWho cares?â âMaybe if I ask whatâs wrong, theyâll say something?â, âOh⊠Iâm annoying to them⊠All I wanted was attention⊠All I wanted was someone to love who I was⊠All I wanted was a friend⊠All I wantedâŠâ
What is takes control. What is makes Souls cry, while bodies die and minds create hypotheticals. What is, in this age, drives man mad. Decent, whole-hearted, loving, humble, generous, and kind creatures called man become what is instead of what was intended.
Our man has become consumed by what is like so many in this time do over time. Heâs lost who he was. His mind boggled and his body weak. He no longer freely thinks for himself, but thinks of what the world thinks of him. What matters no longer matters because what matters doesnât match what matters to him in this world. And what matters in this world doesnât matter anymore because the image of what matters in his head has killed him completely with deceit.
Hurt, he goes to the kitchen. He goes for the leftover pizza he was too lazy to put away last night that he left on the counter. The box is tempting, but the hurt sways him in another direction: the kitchen knife.
He picked up the blade and held it up to the one fluorescent light in the house that hung over the kitchen sink. The only light that was on in the house on this rare occasion. He recalled something that was said to him once when he turned his attention from the knife to the light.
âItâs always dark here,â the voice said.
He recalled that he replied with âit doesnât have to be.â With that in mind, he didnât much care about what he said. It didnât matter now. He was always a beacon for Light, but that has changed. He dimmed the light. Itâs dark here.
The knife was held to his wrist. He pressed the blade hard against his skin. He could feel its teeth dig, trying to find the perfect bite before making a tear. But he pulled the knife away.
Knives, as he recalled from his favorite movie, âshow you who somebody really is⊠but guns are quick.â He set the knife down and went to his bedroom. He opened the drawer to his nightstand. Inside, there was a revolver he kept in case there was ever an intruder in his home at night. Under it was a book of words of what He Said, and a notepad with some of those words from the book. He went to look at the notes of what He Said for a minute, but he changed his mind and took up the gun. Before closing the drawer, he looked at the pad one last time.
âMaybe I can write a note,â he says. âNah⊠No one will care. No one will remember. Theyâre just words after all.â
The book and notes of He Said were shut up into the darkest corner of the dresser. Never to be mentioned to him or us again.
He checked to see if the gun was loaded. There was one bullet in the gun.
âPerfect,â he says as he closes cylinder back with the the correct chamber in place.
Our man cocks the hammer of the gun back after taking the safety off. He places the gun in his mouth once he sits on the edge of his bed. In his nervousness to pull the trigger, he pulls the gun out, and looks at it. For a moment he questions what heâs doing.
All that wonder seems to go from him again. And again, the gun comes up to his head. This time he aims for the front of his skull.
âBOOM!â
For a moment, what is is no more. All the pain has left our man. Blood turns white sheets red. There is an eerie silence that falls over that room that no one can hear now. The only eyes that ever heard the silence were now closed forever. Those same eyes that couldâve told someone a story if someone cared to listen to them are now gone from this world. Until the alarm goes off.
He wakes up. He picks up the phone. He stops the screaming.
Itâs another day.