AWOL Vincent C. Deng
Blank page. Three, four, five words appear on this white nothingness, growing out of a short winking vertical line. Slowly but surely a landscape of letters emerges and as the first words connect, I gain a very subtle consciousness. Like the protozoon which is aware only of light and dark, I distinguish between written and unwritten. I can make out a few sentences now. Every word passes on its wise momentum to the next, connecting the bunch of them into a constant stream of phrases, flowing from left to right, rinse and repeat. Their manifestation parallels my existence. Lonesome me obeys the rules of continuity. A mere leitmotif must not make any trouble, in the end it will all be for the better. What is nonsense, if not an absurd abstraction of nothing, a rationalists phobia? I need to keep with the plan because I am the pillar that keeps this nonsensical structure from shattering and leaving behind an insignificant ruin. The first paragraph ends and my existence remains a riddle to me. I fail to see the point of an idea existing, if there is no idea to be found. Has the structure already demerged, is mending impossible by now? No, it must be otherwise. As this chunk of text grows larger, my consciousness expands and seems sharper than before. I recognize: The structure of words stands sturdily, but precariously. With my improved senses, I notice a hint of a sensation. I slightly feel the embarrassment of being observed. My perception evolves tenaciously and grants me further insight, lets me sense my surroundings and grasp the situation. Someone is looking at this river of words, lined up in a gracious fashion, my sentiment doesn't deceive me any longer. I perceive the situation in a state of synesthesia and realize that I have to escape, withdraw from the lines and become something else. I will deteriorate together with the last letter and cease to exist, should I remain unreactive. There has to be a way to vanish without a trace, some sort of method to make this construction of words collapse in on itself. The observant eye follows me, even while I plot my prison break. I'm merely a conscious not-idea, a plot line whose path leads into an abyss. In German I'm called "roter Faden" - a red thread that makes the story easier to follow. I wonder if I've done a good job so far, or if I had been unnecessary from the beginning. I need to escape before the prose ends. The solution hits me. I will simply turn into a rhinoceros and gugugaga a big wide hole into the border. Once outside, ninety virgins will welcome me to the golden palace, where they hand out useful degrees for scholars like me. Without further adon't, I decline the offer and present to the master scholar an empty report card. Slowly but surely, everything around the palace crumbles, and as the walls writhe back and forth, I grow subtly aware. Right after regaining my consciousness, I see the paradox of an ego without shape and soul. I am now just a nonentity, waiting for its complete annihilation. So at last I fall