Afterworld Painted by Van Gogh

The audible shuffling of a record scratch was all I could hear. Bob Dylan’s voice begins coming through, like a raspy, old-timey radio in an apocalyptic movie. The same lyrics play over and over. In spite of the static, I understand them clearly. His words strike a chord I can’t explain as he sings, “There’s no locket. No picture of any mother I would pocket. Unless it’s been done by Van Gogh.” I clutched the dirty, heart-shaped necklace, the sunflowers on the edges barely visible under the layers of the former Earth. I never remember wanting it, and yet, I was always there- just like them. It held a familiar fear and comfort- just like them. I thought I screamed, but the only thing that came out was another cloud of dust. I covered my ears, but the words of the song were too loud. It was inside my head now, just like them. I begged for silence again and, for a moment, they allowed it.

Replacing the music, a familiar story came back to my head from one of my lifetimes. A radio station DJ in Haiti pressed the button to loop a song before he ran out of his building during a terrible earthquake. The song was “Hotel California”, and, for some, it was all they could hear, on repeat, as their homes fell to pieces around them. Hearing that song after always made me feel deeply on a physiological level, joy and sadness. I could feel it just the same now- a great relief for those who used it to find their way out and a great pain for those who died, just out of its reach, a last glimmer of a world they would never see again.

I’d always been able to see the light and dark of it all, both sides, all sides, and feel it all. Born ambidextrous, bisexual, and on some sort of neurodivergent spectrum, I had an uncanny ability to see and feel things that others often wouldn’t or couldn’t. I only learned later that I was both that way, intentionally, born of the sacred land, one of the first and destined to be one of the last. I think I always knew the truth on some level, perhaps just as much as I allowed myself it was easier to believe I knew nothing at all. I feel that way now. I know what they want me to do. I wish I could pretend I didn’t. I tried once, to start, but I was not strong enough. Or maybe I didn’t know I was strong enough. Either way, I’m here now, and I cannot un-know what is expected of me- what has always been expected of me. The weight of the world has always been heavy and beautiful. I am tired. Now, it is not that I am unsure if I can do what they want. It is a matter of whether I want to. I know that I will.

Lost in what’s left of my mind, I stumble upon a jagged ledge, overlooking a clouded bluff, which was created by them. I catch myself with a dusty palm, grasping a nearby rock, inches from rolling in. I know now it might not matter. It would hurt, probably a lot, but it would take everything for them to decide it is actually the end. At least for me. I’m not so sure about the others. I’m also not so sure I have an end. It took many lifetimes to know I had a clear beginning. I don’t even know when I am, if I stumbled just now, or if I stumbled in another lifetime.

The red-orange haze used to allure me, and I now understand it is an illusion, a construct like our emotions, free will, and our very beings- all beings, except for them. The heat still feels real, and I can’t remember how many lifetimes ago it just became so hot all the time, everywhere, in spite of the warnings. I feel sweat mixed with the silt forming a thin layer everywhere, in spite of my clothing. I miss the cold I once moved across entire countries to escape. How foolish I was then. I close my eyes. My ability to see pictures in my head, once erased for part of a lifetime when I got too close to the truth, had returned in full force. I’d been here long enough to learn to access the parts of my brain that could make me feel exactly what I felt wherever I had been before. I ran though the woods in my mind now, but my body felt it too. There was a chill just enough for a light zipper jacket, my shoes just thing enough to feel the variations in the edges of the rocks scattered along the hiking path. I took a breath in, and the woods felt cool and calm, like a rush of water- a sight no longer seen for at least a lifetime.

The place I transported myself to smelled of the old Earth, rich with minerals, and I was a child, chasing the light of the day peeking through the line of trees. A shadow filled the space where the sun had been and it grew colder and darker fast- too cold now, an unpleasant winter cold. I shuddered then and knew I was shuddering now, as I now understood both were connected. I was in the dark forest, like the once hypothesized theory about the Universe, which turned out to be mostly true. RUN was the shout whisper. Run. Run. Run. It repeated over and over until I obeyed. The cold metal of the locket tapped my chin and my neck in rhythm as I ran.

I don’t remember the collapse- neither the past Earth’s nor my own. I was caught somewhere in the in-between, but this city I woke up in looks nothing like I remember in any lifetime. My memories are different now, everything feeling real and fake at once. Most of what I think I remember is morphing into the images of this After World, painted by a Universal Van Gogh when the dark forest opened, and we learned the truth had been out there all along. The fog feels fresh here and I am atop a building that nature has reclaimed. The concrete has turned into a cubed forest and the air is easier to breathe again. How long have I been running, I wonder, as I let my lungs take a deep breath in and close my eyes.

I hear them in my head. I know when I open my eyes, what I need to see, what they want me to do. I want to know. I’m ready. I scream again and hear my voice instead of theirs. I rip the hard chain from my neck, feeling the angry welt it leaves behind. I breathe the cleaner fog and focus, to make the welt disappear. One more breath in to shake the fog in my head away. I use an overgrown fingernail in a line along the seam of the necklace to break it open. Once fully open, there won’t be any turning back.

With a soft snap, it cracks in two, energy releasing from its contents- the energy of a thousand lifetimes and memories. It overtakes me and I hope I am ready. Every memory. Every moment. Every move I ever made. Every move the others ever made. At first, it’s beautiful, as I came from sacred sands in some of the oldest lands on Earth, and it is calm. I begin to see it all again both painfully slow, happening then and happening in real time, all at once. And I feel the pain all over again of living, of loving, of losing. There is great joy and love everywhere I look. My gift has always been to find it all. But the common threads are still death and me.

In a merry-go-round, over and over they appear. I study them, one by one, looking for the messages they’re giving me- the messengers. My grandmother, who told me the truth before she was killed, and I was taken. My first love, my best friend, my parents, my fiancée, more friends, more family, and finally, my child. One by one, I relive losing them all and watching the past Earth become lost as well. The illnesses, the accidents, the losses, the disasters, the heartaches, the pandemics, the wars, the crumbling of it all. One by one, but I survive it all. And, even after all this time, I can feel how much I’ve often hated myself for the guilt of survival. I know why now. They’ve had a purpose for me all along.

A mother in a locket, a Van Gogh world, the radio in my head has turned itself back on, though I’m not sure in which lifetime. A kaleidoscope of lifetimes lay before me, yet one moment moves slower each time. I feel the life inside of me, repeatedly, as the music gets louder with each pass. There’s something I’m missing. I hold onto that fleeting moment as long as I can, inches from the madness that would leave me trapped in here forever. I scream again, NO. I put a hand on my growing belly and choose now. If it’s the wrong moment, I’ll relieve it forever either way. THIS IS WHAT I CHOOSE, I shout to them, even though I know they hear my thoughts. Is it all a trick? I CHOOSE NOW. Silence. The moment is about to leave me again. I close my eyes and fall to my knees, letting out a guttural scream. I CHOOSE NOW. And I am in the dark forest again, winter cold around me, then everything goes dark.

The gentle warmth of the daylight shines on us, in our sunflower field, on sacred land, in the healed Earth- an Earth whose beautify is both blurrier and more vivid now, like a famous painting I no longer care to recall. The radio is silent in my head as well, replaced by sweet peals of laughter coming from a child with eyes that see like mine. A child in a heart shaped necklace who saved the others. I know I am forever theirs, but my child is mine, and that is all I care to know. The air is clear, and the forest is evergreen on the other side of the fields. I look at the others, who will never know the way the Earth changed before. I have no guarantee it won’t change again, but that is up to them. We are in their world, even if they let us think this recreated Earth is ours. But for now, at least, I hear that sweet laugh, I feel the warm touch of the sun, as I watch my child dance among the tall flowers, a gleam of light reflecting off a locket. And I know, at least for now, we are all okay.