... and at once every concept I held dear collapsed from underneath me as if the floor gave way.
It wasn't real fast, it wasn't real quick either. In retrospect, it is only when I consciously think about it that the rather swiftness of the ordeal stares at me like another's face. The eyes of that other person are rather bloodshot (is he high?) and I cannot get behind them, almost like I want to peer behind them to find meaning. As if meanings are lodged behind the eyes. Where did he come from all of a sudden, I think, just as swift as the floor falling underneath me.
I look at my bare feet as I stand in the workshop. How did I get here? Why am I barefoot? I feel the texture of the wood shavings under my toes and realize that the deafening sound is coming from the machines that are on. Why are all the machines on with no one behind them? Everything seems like a dream, yet the deafening sounds do not go away and I can feel my toes curling over the woodshavings.
I hear a shout, but I cannot seem to find the person doing the shouting. I try to turn but I cannot. Where is the person with the bloodshot eyes? He is also gone, but the machines carry one with no one attending them.
I stick my hand out and a piece of lumber moves from the machine into my hand. The sharp edges cut into my fingers, and the sawdust accumulate on my bare feet. The deafening sounds of the machine continue. I pull on the lumber but it cuts deeper into my bare hand. I feel the warmth of the machine running so close to me. I look for assistance, but there is no one. Why are the machines on? Who put the wood there? I cannot think about this as a dream, I cannot. Everything feels too real and for some reason, the possibility of it being a dream just doesn't sit right with me. I need to be here, I feel with a strange intensity. This cannot be a dream.
Again, I hear the shout, but this time I manage to turn. I am still barefoot and my hands have cuts on them but there is no blood. I try to find the voice, but it still seemingly falls from nowhere.
At once, the same feeling crashes over me like a wave. Nothing feels in place, yet this workshop is so familiar. I try to place everything but as soon as I try to grasp at anything it disappears.
The shouting doesn't stop. I look for some stability in the dream-like experience, but there is nothing I can hold onto. My bare feet are the only thing I can feel with the woodshavings sticking into them.
There is no meaning to this. I know this, but the deafening sounds of the machines don't stop. I can move freely now, but there still seems to be nothing I can hold onto. Concepts float freely like water without a glass. As soon as I grasp things with my mind, there ceases to be meaning in these things. Everything amalgamates into one lump. Yet, I can distinguish the sounds. The machines, the shouting, where is the shouting coming from!?
I smell the hot sawdust. It burns my nose. I try to grab some of it with my fingers like my toes are grasping the woodshavings, but my fingers feel numb. I try to open my mouth, but it is too dry; my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. I take a deep breath and smell the hot sawdust. Things slowly take shape again, meaning seeps back into my mind like early morning waves barely moving in and out of the ocean. The reason for me standing in the workshop becomes clearer, but like the sun I cannot look at it yet. My eyes burn from the sawdust that dances in the air like fairies in an enchanted wood. I try to move and I am rewarded with the machines that stopped.
A single ray of sunshine knocks me out of the daydream.
The workshop is quiet, no machines are running, no screaming. With the broom in my hand, I continue to sweep the floor. Sawdust still dances in the air like fairies in an enchanted wood.
Post Scriptum Thingy
This was just a fun story that entered my mind whilst I worked in the wood workshop with my dad. I know, it is very dangerous to work barefoot in a workshop. Numerous open wounds and I can still not learn to wear protective gear. I guess it comes from working so close to machines that can cut off your finger with such ease that I couldn't care less about a stubbed toe or two. In any case, as my dad says, do as I say not as I do! So kids, wear your protective gear! The photographs were taken with my iPhone, and I thought about this story for way too long standing in the workshop needing to work. I hope you enjoyed the free write a bit! I am not natively English, so if you find any weird sentence constructions or weird word usages, please let me know in the comments!
Something very visceral, about the scents, sounds and more of a wood shop.
but Barefoot?
Yeah, that's just ASKING for danger and a problem.
Indeed! But the photograph was luckily posed. I do wear protective gear!
And thank you so much. I appreciate your kind words.
I love the way this is written - also, I too am a life-long non-learner when it comes to proper safety. There are some exceptions, for example I will take solid measures to avoid ever getting fiberglass in my eye again hahaha!
True, there are some things and places where safety is so imporant! I will walk barefoot but wear eye protective gear. Oh the contradiction! But like we say in my country, a donkey will not bump its foot twice on the same rock.
HAHAHA! I like that. Is it true? Do donkeys learn from their mistakes like that? I’ve often thought of that ability, particularly the ability to pass those lessons on to others, as a particularly human characteristic. …sorry to twist an adage into a literal thing, but it piqued my curiosity 😁
Now I am wondering as well! As there is some truth in metaphors and stereotypes, but the history is lost to us. I wonder who "saw" it for the first time.
Hahaha! Well, when we figure it out we can post it here so it’s never lost again!
That is what the internet is for right! But imagine the chaos in linguistics when we disprove 90% of idioms and metaphors! The utter chaos
LOL!!!
Me reading this with bloodshot eyes: Oh shit! Is he talking about me?
Me: Bru, leave me alone now 😁
Dude I am barefoot everywhere, so I get it. I mean, not at the moment because it's cold, but I am still trying once a day.
Bluefin said there was something visceral about the scent & sounds of wood, and I would use the same term to describe your text, very well written, and at least for me felt written in a good english, though it isn't my first language so I don't know much what I am talking about.
I rarely know what I am talking and writing about. So either one of these two things: (i) I luckily get passed or looked over in our system of over-production, or, (ii) those who assess my work is also in the not-knowing loop haha. Because I somehow published my thesis and some peer-reviewed articles. But alas, that is a topic for another day!
Thanks for the visit and read! Keep well.