dylancoyle: via Ray Ceasar I closed my eyes again and when I opened them I was on the island from Lost. I stood on a hill overlooking a deep green valley. The sea was to the left of me—wave after wave broke on top of one other as they raced to the white sand shore with its clusters of rocks and swaying palm trees. A Hawaiian paradise in all its glory—only it wasn’t Hawaii. Although this was the place where the TV show was filmed, the place where I stood was not on TV.  I stood on the actual island from Lost, the invisible one out there spinning in time—both in the plot and as a complete entity connected tangentially to the ever-changing minds of the writers and producers.  It was real, and I was a part of it.  I was a survivor of Oceanic Flight 815—that much I knew.  All other information of my old existence was distant and hard to recall.  My own name kept slipping through my fingers.  I closed my eyes to concentrate and saw flashes of computer screens and a dreary room and a sink stacked with takeout containers.   Even though I could barely remember it, I had the sense that I should keep the fact that I had another life a secret.  I needed to give myself over to my new part like Sawyer, Juliet and the others give themselves over to life in the doomed Dharma initiative. The sense of being there was such that there was no more future, no more maybes and hatching of plans.  I was where I was and there was no questioning it—no reality beyond the here and now.  No economy, no emails no phone calls to make, no things to buy, or appointments to schedule—no show to perform or far flung destiny the only thing I had to do in the whole world was what I was doing—walking down the gently sloping grass covered hill and into the trees, where the darkness of evening was starting to gather.

dylancoyle:

via Ray Ceasar

I closed my eyes again and when I opened them I was on the island from Lost.

I stood on a hill overlooking a deep green valley. The sea was to the left of me—wave after wave broke on top of one other as they raced to the white sand shore with its clusters of rocks and swaying palm trees. A Hawaiian paradise in all its glory—only it wasn’t Hawaii. Although this was the place where the TV show was filmed, the place where I stood was not on TV.  I stood on the actual island from Lost, the invisible one out there spinning in time—both in the plot and as a complete entity connected tangentially to the ever-changing minds of the writers and producers.  It was real, and I was a part of it.  I was a survivor of Oceanic Flight 815—that much I knew.  All other information of my old existence was distant and hard to recall.  My own name kept slipping through my fingers.  I closed my eyes to concentrate and saw flashes of computer screens and a dreary room and a sink stacked with takeout containers.   Even though I could barely remember it, I had the sense that I should keep the fact that I had another life a secret.  I needed to give myself over to my new part like Sawyer, Juliet and the others give themselves over to life in the doomed Dharma initiative.

The sense of being there was such that there was no more future, no more maybes and hatching of plans.  I was where I was and there was no questioning it—no reality beyond the here and now.  No economy, no emails no phone calls to make, no things to buy, or appointments to schedule—no show to perform or far flung destiny the only thing I had to do in the whole world was what I was doing—walking down the gently sloping grass covered hill and into the trees, where the darkness of evening was starting to gather.