The Great Flood

He was alone, or rather he had wanted to be alone for some time, but all it took was a few hours and he got what he wanted. The world washed away the other month, he sat recollecting his thoughts. He remembered the calamity and the panic, he remembered being unusually calm for such a disastrous event. In retrospect, he thought, I suppose some deep internal part of me knew I would be ok. He stands from the couch and walks toward the fridge-turned-regular storage box with no electricity and fetches a lukewarm beer. “Well I got what I asked for didn’t I?” he spoke aloud to the dishes piled up in his sink. He thought about all the things he didn’t have to do, which was a lot, and all of the things he wanted to do, which was also a lot, and sunk into his armchair a bit overwhelmed. I know I’m not supposed to think this way, but I think it’s alright that I find both a comfort knowing I’m alone, while also, maybe I’m justified by having thoughts of also missing humanity. Is it just moral licensing in this case? Feeling the freedom to feel great being alone while spending some time grieving? Or is it more sinister than that?

The great flood occurred a month ago, a bit too spiritual for his liking but he couldn’t help connecting it to Noah’s Ark and the great flood, and a lot of people felt the same way. He didn’t go so far, but he observed many people entering the streets of NYC to pray together. More opinion pieces began to come out in The New York Times, and lines were beginning to be blurred between objectivity and subjective realities. Logic, too, feels a little strange to think about, but I can suppose if I survived then other people must have. This brought him a little comfort, but also brought him a bit of jealousy or maybe it had a few ill thoughts. Maybe I’m someone who’s always wanted to be on top and now I am, I’m… unique… gross. Is that something that I wanted all along? Someone to tell me that I was unique? But then if everyone were to be dead then how would I even be considered to be unique? I am then unique innately, but no one will recognize my being unique.

In front of him lay one of his paintings. The brush had created strokes of water, gently caressing a city underneath. The sun cast its light down and bits of white paint created fractals of light against the canvas. Seas of fish, a few dead, killer whales, bits of trash, and a pair of boots laced together all flowed with the direction of the strokes of paint. It almost looked like the large highrise buildings swayed along with the flow too, bending to the current. I created a story no one will see. It’s not practical for me to schlep this thing around looking for people who are alive. And let’s say I find someone, what will they say when my offering is a large fucking piece of painted-over canvas. What purpose do I serve now that I can’t show the work that I loved? Why didn’t I spend more time finding out how to show more people before? I doubt I could change the events but… maybe it would have mattered more to me to have humanity at least glance in my artistic direction. My artistic expression. To be expressed. To be shared… Can I not share it with myself then? Enjoy it myself? I’m not entirely too far from Blick I could probably dive for some more art supplies and make plenty more. I can probably survive for a while here.

It was a regular practice for him to go out to search for material. He had found some diving gear left by a neighbor in his apartment complex who had tried to run for it, driving out of the city. He might still be in his car waiting for traffic to recede at the bottom of this entirely new ocean. I suppose since he’s such a classy dude, he’s probably just peeing while waiting in his car like he used to at a beach in his swimsuit. Probably pissed a few times in his gear too. He didn’t like the thought of this. Eh, I shouldn’t be saying shit like this, he’s probably dead. Shouldn’t I have some respect for them? With so much death it just feels… so normal now. Reality, morals, and ethics, all instantaneously distorted as quickly as events took place.

Checking his stock now he decided it best to stay in for the night. He’d be fine for a few days, besides, it was getting late and unless you left around 11 am just before the sun was at its highest then it’s going to be difficult to see. He grabbed a case of beer, a pack of cigarettes, a flashlight, and a blanket and stepped out of his apartment. He turned his flashlight on to navigate the halls. He took the stairs up to the roof. Opening the door he was met with a gentle breeze, he took it in reflexively with a large inhale. A form of communion to this new world he enacted every day around this time. With practiced movement, he lay his blanket down and lit a cigarette drawing the smoke deep into his lungs and holding only to let the nicotine do its dichotomous work. Lagunitas was his beer of choice, there were plenty of liquor stores but he felt that beer kept him at a nice pace of enjoying life a little buzzed, as opposed to something hard, giving himself the opportunity to drink himself to death. He at least wanted to be conscious of his demise.

The sun was going down, it was a cloudless sky, he had spent most of it shut inside working on his painting. I should start painting up here more, at least to enjoy the nature. There was a wonderful clearing without buildings where the sun could rest easily for the day between. As it fell the red glow began to strike the water bouncing right back to him, he closed his eyes and felt the warmth of this. I suppose you can see me, can’t you? I suppose if I wanted anyone to see me, it would be you, and the moon to take your place. On the surface, you both seem taciturn, sometimes I felt like you judged me. But that’s something to get past with you two, isn’t it? You probably dislike it when people misinterpret you. …You probably don’t care, do you? …You probably continue on whether anybody was here or not. You did it before, it probably feels no different to you now. But you notice, …you have to notice, if anything, you’re observant to it all in all its changes. If I could speak with you I’m sure you’d have many stories to tell. Maybe I can, you’re just sworn to secrecy, a diligent agent, brushing off my nosiness yet again. Or your language is different, and you do speak to me. How did I know I was spoken to when there were people? To be spoken to or to be spoken at? When I’m here with you I feel the prior.

The sun descends behind the buildings and is no longer visible. He stands up and moves closer to the edge of the roof and looks down into the dark calm water. I suppose if you’re both still here, and I’m still here, I’ll keep showing up until I can’t anymore. However my feelings on the circumstances at hand, my only option is to keep going, to be the observer of the state of the world day in and day out. I may have asked for this, and maybe I should have been careful what I wished for, but… there’s really no use regretting it now. What else is there to do but find some way to live? He began thinking again about all that he didn’t have to do, which was a lot, and all that he wanted to do, which was a lot. As he looked at the dark and calm water he didn’t feel overwhelmed this time. I’ll take it a day at a time, one thing at a time, and live till I can no longer live anymore. I can do all that I’ve wanted to do. Not that this should have been the excuse.

Much love today and every day,

Matt Piper 🐅🌱