Cold adrenaline, coursing through veins like a rattlesnake bite, sharp venom spreading over body limbs, taking over. No control, vision starting to go blurry, thoughts exploding out like spider cracks in the altered perception of reality, losing grip on sanity. Toxins causing muscle spasms, hijacking the nervous system, chest pains and shortness of breath shorting out abstract thinking, reducing higher reasoning to rote motor-functions that aren't functioning properly. Survival backup systems kicking in, fear takes over like icy fingers scratching out narrow pupils that no longer track light, panic-stricken would-be blue-screen short-circuiting inner wiring of the central nervous system which completely locked up like fifteen minutes ago. You've got thirty seconds to live, hurry, poisoned blood zigzagging through bulging veins shooting straight to a hyperpalpating heart beating faster than a mouse snatched by a rattlesnake. Tunnel vision, sight gone now, zero body sensation, mass panic ensue.
Eternal revenance, freeflowing through heavenly stratospheres, piercing the clear-carbon sky, illuminating a path to enlightenment which is the gleam of your aether-blue eyes, halogen aquamarines, bright as an eventide oracle, alive as the surface of the sun chasing a path to the horizon. You flow like a luminary presence, an aerionic aura, a celestial omnipresent power, a sacrament of the wind. Iridescent wavelengths dance through your sable hair, curled around my fingers like calescent silk, tongue-tied in knots around my heart-strings, you've found the soft music in me. Your wings wrap around me like a ballad, shadows of worlds dancing on alabaster feathers, lulling me into the serene waters of your aqualescent gaze, velvet harmonic whispers caressing my ear.
“Don’t be afraid.”
You came to me like the energy of a million stars, freefalling fast toward dream-sequence, starscaping past the coronation of the sun, and made me your Simbelmine flower, efflorescing under lunar lightbeams. And so I bloom only for the deity of the moon, ethereal and mysterious, your rouse is of Fantasmagoria sweeping a forlorn sunrise, where I will withdraw beneath lunar flowers to await the aphelion night, when I can see you again.
A vast slipstream. It races by me like sylph worlds, creating dimensional rifts in the physical realm. I reach my hand out to touch one of these riftworlds, and catapult through time. I'm here at a bar, taking a shot for the road with a boy I just met. The liquor slides down my throat like an elixir, instantaneous happiness. Suddenly I'm gallivanting through the space-time continuum, purposefully and recklessly going nowhere in particular. Supernovae hyperimplode all around me like an extraterrestrial dogfight aimed right at me, and that's when the hairs on the back of my neck started to stand up. What if they hit me, what if I get lost what if I can't find my way back, what will I do? What will become of me? Paranoia seeped through my veins like the liquid shot at the bar finally being absorbed by my body, system shutdown inevitable, operation terminated, code red, abort, abort!
Stop.
And then a lunar cloud floats by me, carried on solar winds, and I think "dude, chill." And suddenly the Supernovae are fireworks, exploding in the sky like a holographic lightshow exclusively for me. The only way the can hit me is if I run head on into them. I decide that would be silly, and drift on watching the show. Categoric rift-haze streaking by like windshield rain, I see light at the end of the liminal solar system. Username, password, system scan complete, virus report: zero.
Somnambulism; Paracomputer isometrics in symbiotic symphony, freeflowing headfirst into Liminality, dominating the sheerflow fabrics of being. In this monochromatic mess of mixed messages rests the restless internal wiring of the Void, a vast semisystematic neurosis needing no more than a spark to build a world, and no more than a flutter to raze it. Devastated by deviations in psychological programming, attempts to create order in a world that is purposefully and categorically chaotic end in rip-phase cataclysms, and we wonder why we go on. But I look at the sky now, a tachyonic hologram of laser-guided lighstreams jettisoning across cyberspace that short-circuit continuously, creating unsynchronized flickers in the evernight veldt, and I no longer care. I see registry systems rigged into the natural world, Golden Ratios forming predictably intricate and ultimately depressingly simple patterns, Universal Dynamics destroying any hope I had of redemption from the artificial, decaying all the definitions of real, extinction of free-expression looming like an apocalypse, the only escape being the one we are driven to at the end of all things. Programmable reality, it’s destroying my hope for something more, leaving me in a vain search for a deeper meaning that isn’t there and never will be. Moron, I think, did you ever think you could change that program? Did you seriously hope to succeed?...Yes, I whisper to myself through the dark tranquility of the netherworld I’ve found myself in, and I expected it to let me.
In this axiomatic world-thing we’ve pioneered, there are two and only two types of loners, those who choose it and those who are banished to it. I find myself a sentient script of the two distinctions, and am subsequently stripped of a subculture in which to belong. Not a rebel, not a fighter, not a loner…an Iconoclast. Alas, I stand alone at the core of consciousness, trailblazing the path to Enlightenment, waiting for others to follow, while merchandise advertisements stream like propaganda into the minds of misanthropia, influencing false imagery on which we base reality, pushing facepaint to girls in order to make themselves feel pretty, and contraception to boys in order to make themselves feel wanted, creating an invisible erotic misconception, mandating a set path of artificial existence, indoctrinating the last remaining truth-seekers into lies. Truth died a long time ago.
Why! I cry out to the systematic sky, why the terrible illusive pattern? Why the subtle hint of routine in the most abstract of concepts, like love? Why the same neurodevelopmental anatomy giving way to the same personality idiosyncrasies and psychological hallucinations in every man? I wish I could not remember the beginning and end of each day, for then I would never know the exciting rush of the new, nor the sheering pang of the end, just the monumental mind-fuck of postmodernism that is the events of each luminary-cycle, comfortable displacement. Something is wrong in the underlying program of this place, for pain is the body’s reaction to something out of synch, and if the world were right, there would be no pain at all. And so I fall to my knees in the vast electrophonic wastelands of the Void, and realize…
Life is wires connected to a computer, and this is all a system test.
