There is a horse in my bedroom: Difference between revisions
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We both hunger for knowledge. We both hunger for a solution.
Behind those dumb animal eyes I see a yearning to be anywhere else but here. This horse should be somewhere out in a meadow, or sleeping in a stable. He
My temper might be bad, and I do rush to speaking without proper thought, but I
I have repented for my sins yet, each and every night, the horse still wakes me from my dreamless sleep.
I am a proud man, and it pains me to ask for help, but this strange corner of the internet is my last bastion of hope.
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Walking past the dark gothic structures, seeing the results of nigh a thousand years of civilization, it all brought a sense of calm into my soul. What further pleased me were the obnoxiously colored signs advertising tourist traps.
For years I have hated how the specter of revenue has twisted our culture to normalize
Prior to the plague I worked as a tour guide. The past year has not been easy, but all of the pain has been muffled beneath a promise that things would one day return to normal. The man covered in silver paint pretending to be a mute Michael Jackson in front of the 15th century astronomical clock was a sign of that promise being fulfilled.
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I saw the horse.
It stood in the old town square, right next to a towering statue of a priest who was burned alive for criticizing the Catholic Church. The horse was harnessed to a carriage covered in fake gold and fake velvet. No amount of tacky decoration could hide the
All memories of the pleasant aspects of the tourism industry fled from my mind and were replaced by the specter of summer heat. The burning sun, the seared tan-lines of name badges, that eternal search for shade that would never be satisfied — reflected in that poor
I had a choice.
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An American family with a screaming child approached the horse. I recognized the looks on their faces.
The family froze, even the child found me more interesting than whatever it was crying about. Yet the look in their eyes
The name badge always does the trick, and the word authentic always clinches it. As soon as I pointed out a nearby restaurant the child remembered its misfortune and started to weep again. The American couple thanked me and set off on a search of good authentic goulash.
From behind his blinders the horse looked at me. His exhausted eyes
The astronomic clock beat its ancient bell and trotted out its five hundred year old puppet show. The universe seemed at peace. I felt good about myself.
That
He emerged from behind his carriage, furious. His skin was rough; the years had made themselves known on his face. He had lived through Brezhnev, possibly even a couple years of Khrushchev. Had I met the man in regular clothes, in some smoky pub, I would have ran. My tender bones born into tender democracy are no match for someone who went through the struggle.
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Yet that evening I did not run.
The angry carriage
The man came within striking distance. Suddenly his magical clothes
I could smell the brand of cigarettes on his breath. Startky, the cancer sticks of a country that no longer exists.
The carriage driver
I sat there on cobble stone laid a hundred years prior, watching the perfect midpoint between the men that promote strip clubs and the men that promote concert halls angrily smoke. The astronomical clock finished off its show and a handful of disappointed travelers started to make their way back home to their hotels. I should have gone home too.
But I
Those tired dull eyes, that dripping spit; the majestic animal that hovered over me
Since that evening I have spent a lot of time thinking about that phrase. I
If I had a horse I would treat him much nicer.
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I was a fool to think the cosmos would not answer.
The reddened sky of the setting sun had faded away, a starless night had painted itself above us. Beneath the lamp light the carriage driver no longer looked absurd. He stood on cobbled streets once soaked in blood, dressed like something out of a
Not wanting to get shoved again, I made my way back home.
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The eyes. The muzzle. The confusion.
The afterimage of the horror stayed with me as the room descended back into darkness. I was almost certain that it was the
The flashlight on my phone was meant to ease my mind, yet when I reached for the jeans lying by my bed I found another reason to be worried. Instead of grasping at cloth my fingers rubbed up against a rough surface.
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The horse was real. There was no escaping it.
The horse was real and it
Immediately I unplugged my table lamp and seized it as a weapon. The thought of the barnyard animal hiding somewhere in the apartment caused my blood to grow cold and jagged. Each room held the potential for the animal to be doing further damage to the home I was renting. Each door I opened rushed images of getting trampled to death into my mind.
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Yet no horse presented itself.
The damage and excrement were only contained to my cramped bedroom. The rest of the apartment was spotless, or, as spotless as the apartment of someone
I threw the glass shards of my lamp into the trash and scooped up the excrement into an old
Removing the excrement from my floor made the stench less potent, but regardless of how much of a breeze I forced through the room it still stank of manure.
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The horse screamed, confused and uncomfortable.
The sound of broken strings and cracked wood cut through the bedroom. My guitar, my one way of channeling the anxious year of quarantine into art— it lay broken at the
NEEEEIIIIIGH!
The animal bounced its heavy body against the floorboards in frustration. The whole room shifted. From beneath the floor an angry broom responded to the
NEEEEIIIGHHH!
Neeeigh!
Neigh.
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The animal calmed, as if it understood my words, as if it wanted to work together to get out of this horrid curse we were both stuck in. Yet no progress was made. I spent the night staring at the horse, trying to find some semblance of reason within its eyes, but my search was fruitless.
We faced off well into the first rays of sun, man and beast, both searching for answers to their respective predicaments. My willingness to stare off with the horse soon came to a close, however. As we searched each
My soul churning confusion and fear soon turned to disgust. I made my way to the
I did not waste time on self-pity this time. Immediately I messaged every person in my contacts who I thought could help me. I did so with the utmost hope that someone would provide advice, that someone would tell me I have not gone mad— yet no such thing happened.
Most of my friends are tour-guides, or perhaps more accurately were tour guides. With the badge not holding us together we have all drifted apart into unanswered
I knew the horse would return at midnight. Without a shred of doubt I was certain that the mysterious animal would appear in my bedroom again, but I did nothing to brace for its arrival. I simply laid in bed, motionless, waiting for the inevitable barnyard intrusion on my rented home.
The sun set, the children outside stopped playing. I knew I should prepare, that I should at least ensure that nothing on my floor can be destroyed by the
The snapping of electronics rung in the arrival of midnight.
My phone charger
As I write these words the horse is looking at me. In the dying light of my phone screen I can see its bulging eyes look to me for guidance. I have none. I am just as confused as he is.
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