Because my body is that of a deserted child.
Standing atop shattered glass, making collect calls to strangers who speak in distant tongues, I narrate to them this nightmare. I am conscious of the moments, as I transcribe pointless observations to the machine's cold receptacle. Transactions of neuroses that convert into nausea, and the cyclic madness of this clinical friction. And as silence resonates in my ears after the foreign banter leaves for more interesting tasks, I ask myself:
"Where do I go from here?"
He resides in a derelict alley, and his altar is hollow dumpster of failure. He tells me tales of manufactured vanity and plastic happiness, as he marks the entry wounds of my blood soaked pleas. He is an eroding tyrant, and his reign will come to an end when I instigate the revolution.
But I'm tired now.
An irksome rabbit hides in my stomach, afraid to be recognized by the silverware. Scarecrows within oblivion reach for an innovative principle in vain. The choir of cadavers annihilate my pirated copy of Jagged Little Pill as my tonsils pick and choose my future at random. Thankfully my soul is stillborn, and resides in one of the sublevels of the universe.
But I'm confused now.
Solitude brings an ethereal peace that is bittersweet. Sometimes I shackle myself in my chamber of decaying steel, and cocoon myself in shadow. Nothing is usually on TV except for Olympics and national propaganda, and they’re also showing re-runs. It reduces me to a catatonic state, and in the thin shaft of sweet and heavy light, I watch the illuminated parasite, and I am entranced, as it swims through my veins.
But I'm bored now.
Hatred appeases this evolutionary reversal. My turmoil arises from this terminal journey of abnegation. Slowly my thoughts are becoming methodical. Mechanical. The central processor is beginning to give me violent thrusts of septic energy, and its purpose unfolds like a disintegrating delusion. They’re trying to destroy unfiltered thought. The alter ego has been impaled upon the epilogue, and in the outcome I find compromised equilibrium. An amiable chaos of mannerisms and disruptions, as his scent lingers in the air. This is a memoir without words, only spelling mistakes.
But I couldn't give a fuck now.
Because I have abandoned myself.