A Monumental Mind-Fuck of Post-Modernism

Warmth (Bleed) by Omega Code

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.