BLNK
06-14-2012, 09:41 PM
Some of you have likely read this when I began, I, unfortunately, have not added much to it since then. But, I would like some feedback on it's current form, if no one objects.
What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger, right? And this hasn't killed me yet, that I know of that is. I mean, one would know if they were dead, wouldn't they? There would be signs. A flash of light, where I can't decide if I've accidentally killed my parents as the dmt floods my brain, because hallucinogens were never really for me. Or there would have been a "Welcome to Hell, population 99 billion people." sign, because that's how much of the human population has already died off. Or I would be floating in some blank white space, like a dot in the center of a wordpad document, waiting for my eternity to be decided for me by some overly idealized figure of omnipotence, who has no face, or body, and will only speak to me through the shape of a small duck wearing a plaid tuxedo. So, I must not be dead. Though, I've been told that if I don't take God more seriously he might smite me by throwing lightning bolts into my shower while he jerks off to, not me, or the countless number of other people he can also watch showering, but to the mere idea that he can watch those people showering at all. It's sickening, isn't it? It makes your stomach turn, sharp turns, too. The type of turns you take on an S curve, going 95 in a little red sports car that you got during your midlife crisis, right before you hit the guard rail, and flip 8 times, killing you, and your teenage son who was in the car with you. That kind of sickening. Try not to vomit when you've seen a man being twisted inside of a giant piece of metal, as it crushes his bones, causing them to angle in a way that you should only see in an abstract painting while his skin is torn off, and sliced by the tiny shards of glass, and screeching steel as the car collides with the rail. Rolling them into a machine manufactured, ever expanding snowball of suffering, and pieces of organs, until finally he's ripped into two at the waist, with his guts flying across the small wooded area where the car has finally landed. For the wolves to pick at once the police, and emts have finished scraping up what little they had it in them to bare themselves. And I nearly followed suit, trying not to let my lunch decide that I needed a second course. Adding my own vomit to that picture would make me subject to be a part of some fetish video that you find on the internet while you're searching for 1 guy, 1 jar to email to all of your friends while you're sitting at your daily 9 to 5 office job bored out of your mind. And for what? All to see their reaction about the video the next time you bring it up to them in person? While laughing at their descriptions of the deeply rooted, horrible, cold, sweat soaked nightmares seeing that jar break made them have for several days after? "FUCK!!" I wonder if I was having a screaming contest with the squealing of my breaks as my tires skid across the road. I don't remember which was harder to pull myself away from either. Whether it was the trance like stare at the teenage passenger who had been thrown from the car, his body folding over him to the point that his lower back could touch the back of his skull, his face nearly gone from sliding across the pavement. Leaving nothing behind him but some 15 year old girl that he asked to his winter formal, at which he decided to take advantage of her after spiking her punch throughout the night. That, a trail of blood, and chunks of skin ripped from his left cheek. Or if it was my suffocating grip on the steering wheel in front of me, grasping it as if it were my grip on reality, or the concept of death to somehow cope with what I had just seen unfold. It's ironic, this boy's father was the one with his head up his ass, but his son could physically perform the act. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..." It was all I could say, tearing my hands away from the wheel, trembling as I shoved my right hand into my pocket. It felt like hours before the tips of my fingers reached my cell phone, and hadn't been this hard to remember three numbers since the grease fire I watched burn down my father's kitchen when I was 7 years old, and it was up to me to call the fire department. I of course panicked, and froze before running outside. "9,1,1." As if saying them aloud will stop my thumb from shaking violently while I dial the numbers. "911: Please state your emergency." The young woman on the other end of the line didn't deserve to have such a terrible thing described to her. But, I desperately wanted to tell her every discomforting detail of what I had just watched happen, because she had repeated this same phrase 62 times before I had made this phone call, and it sounded as stale to me as the gum she had been chewing for the past several hours tasted to her. But who was I to judge? The dry mouth from the 4 vicodin 750 es' I had taken on my way to work had made my gums taste just as stale. "There's been an accident... A man, and a boy, they're dead.." I'm not sure why I hesitated. I think it was because I was waiting for this so called emergence, but there was no emergence to see, was there? There was no ghostly mist escaping from their noses, or mouths, or both. The only mist was that of the man being torn in half as blood dusted over the blades of grass, and the leaves, and bark of the tall, swaying oak that the car had nestled itself against like they were long time lovers who had just met for the first time. There was no skeleton in a black cloak tapping the flattened bottom tip of his scythe against the ground as the cracks in the road rise into giant mountains of rubble. While the two victims of the crash had their tortured souls lead into the underworld, watching the lava clump together in front of them like the excess around the edge of the cap covering a stick of glue that the kid who couldn't use paste without making a mess was forced to use in your third grade class. All of which was forming the path down the steep incline into the center of the earth. There may have been, however, translucent cartoon versions of their bodies, draped in a white robes as they float towards the sky playing miniature harps with their tiny wings fluttering endlessly. But, the drugs can account for that. "And where are you calling from, sir?" My heart was swelling with the sense of feigned respect that she was trying to gargle out like it was cum in the mouth of the star of Hardcore Harlots 5, which just so happens to be my favorite porn series. "County road 34, off of Plateau Drive." It no longer peaked my interest, so taking the phone from my ear, I pressed the ruby slipper red End Call button on a touch screen that had never touched anyone. Thinking that there's no place like home, and speeding away from the dreadful, dread filled scene. This was me panicking and running away, again. Except this time, there were no flames licking the bottom of the cabinets hanging over the stove top. They were spouting from the hood of a car, like the fountain in the lobby of corporate America. Unfortunately, I wasn't dressed for the occasion. "Hello.." I had already traveled several miles from the accident as Cody answered his phone drowsily, his being the name my thumb settled on out of the 8 listed in my phone's contacts, most of which were drug dealers. "I'll be stopping by soon, is that alright?" My voice was temmbling like the tremors in the aftermath of an earthquake, rattling the windows to my soul. "Yeah, sure.. Is it urgent?" It was more urgent than I realized. I had already begun tugging at the lone, loose thread that would unravel my personal actuality without realizing. Before I knew it, the entire sleeve of the cloth of perception that had been draped over me would be gone. What would I do in bare existence? It's the dream that you have, when you're naked in the class room during the big exam. But instead of being in the flesh, I would be in the nothing at all, because that's all that would be left.
What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger, right? And this hasn't killed me yet, that I know of that is. I mean, one would know if they were dead, wouldn't they? There would be signs. A flash of light, where I can't decide if I've accidentally killed my parents as the dmt floods my brain, because hallucinogens were never really for me. Or there would have been a "Welcome to Hell, population 99 billion people." sign, because that's how much of the human population has already died off. Or I would be floating in some blank white space, like a dot in the center of a wordpad document, waiting for my eternity to be decided for me by some overly idealized figure of omnipotence, who has no face, or body, and will only speak to me through the shape of a small duck wearing a plaid tuxedo. So, I must not be dead. Though, I've been told that if I don't take God more seriously he might smite me by throwing lightning bolts into my shower while he jerks off to, not me, or the countless number of other people he can also watch showering, but to the mere idea that he can watch those people showering at all. It's sickening, isn't it? It makes your stomach turn, sharp turns, too. The type of turns you take on an S curve, going 95 in a little red sports car that you got during your midlife crisis, right before you hit the guard rail, and flip 8 times, killing you, and your teenage son who was in the car with you. That kind of sickening. Try not to vomit when you've seen a man being twisted inside of a giant piece of metal, as it crushes his bones, causing them to angle in a way that you should only see in an abstract painting while his skin is torn off, and sliced by the tiny shards of glass, and screeching steel as the car collides with the rail. Rolling them into a machine manufactured, ever expanding snowball of suffering, and pieces of organs, until finally he's ripped into two at the waist, with his guts flying across the small wooded area where the car has finally landed. For the wolves to pick at once the police, and emts have finished scraping up what little they had it in them to bare themselves. And I nearly followed suit, trying not to let my lunch decide that I needed a second course. Adding my own vomit to that picture would make me subject to be a part of some fetish video that you find on the internet while you're searching for 1 guy, 1 jar to email to all of your friends while you're sitting at your daily 9 to 5 office job bored out of your mind. And for what? All to see their reaction about the video the next time you bring it up to them in person? While laughing at their descriptions of the deeply rooted, horrible, cold, sweat soaked nightmares seeing that jar break made them have for several days after? "FUCK!!" I wonder if I was having a screaming contest with the squealing of my breaks as my tires skid across the road. I don't remember which was harder to pull myself away from either. Whether it was the trance like stare at the teenage passenger who had been thrown from the car, his body folding over him to the point that his lower back could touch the back of his skull, his face nearly gone from sliding across the pavement. Leaving nothing behind him but some 15 year old girl that he asked to his winter formal, at which he decided to take advantage of her after spiking her punch throughout the night. That, a trail of blood, and chunks of skin ripped from his left cheek. Or if it was my suffocating grip on the steering wheel in front of me, grasping it as if it were my grip on reality, or the concept of death to somehow cope with what I had just seen unfold. It's ironic, this boy's father was the one with his head up his ass, but his son could physically perform the act. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..." It was all I could say, tearing my hands away from the wheel, trembling as I shoved my right hand into my pocket. It felt like hours before the tips of my fingers reached my cell phone, and hadn't been this hard to remember three numbers since the grease fire I watched burn down my father's kitchen when I was 7 years old, and it was up to me to call the fire department. I of course panicked, and froze before running outside. "9,1,1." As if saying them aloud will stop my thumb from shaking violently while I dial the numbers. "911: Please state your emergency." The young woman on the other end of the line didn't deserve to have such a terrible thing described to her. But, I desperately wanted to tell her every discomforting detail of what I had just watched happen, because she had repeated this same phrase 62 times before I had made this phone call, and it sounded as stale to me as the gum she had been chewing for the past several hours tasted to her. But who was I to judge? The dry mouth from the 4 vicodin 750 es' I had taken on my way to work had made my gums taste just as stale. "There's been an accident... A man, and a boy, they're dead.." I'm not sure why I hesitated. I think it was because I was waiting for this so called emergence, but there was no emergence to see, was there? There was no ghostly mist escaping from their noses, or mouths, or both. The only mist was that of the man being torn in half as blood dusted over the blades of grass, and the leaves, and bark of the tall, swaying oak that the car had nestled itself against like they were long time lovers who had just met for the first time. There was no skeleton in a black cloak tapping the flattened bottom tip of his scythe against the ground as the cracks in the road rise into giant mountains of rubble. While the two victims of the crash had their tortured souls lead into the underworld, watching the lava clump together in front of them like the excess around the edge of the cap covering a stick of glue that the kid who couldn't use paste without making a mess was forced to use in your third grade class. All of which was forming the path down the steep incline into the center of the earth. There may have been, however, translucent cartoon versions of their bodies, draped in a white robes as they float towards the sky playing miniature harps with their tiny wings fluttering endlessly. But, the drugs can account for that. "And where are you calling from, sir?" My heart was swelling with the sense of feigned respect that she was trying to gargle out like it was cum in the mouth of the star of Hardcore Harlots 5, which just so happens to be my favorite porn series. "County road 34, off of Plateau Drive." It no longer peaked my interest, so taking the phone from my ear, I pressed the ruby slipper red End Call button on a touch screen that had never touched anyone. Thinking that there's no place like home, and speeding away from the dreadful, dread filled scene. This was me panicking and running away, again. Except this time, there were no flames licking the bottom of the cabinets hanging over the stove top. They were spouting from the hood of a car, like the fountain in the lobby of corporate America. Unfortunately, I wasn't dressed for the occasion. "Hello.." I had already traveled several miles from the accident as Cody answered his phone drowsily, his being the name my thumb settled on out of the 8 listed in my phone's contacts, most of which were drug dealers. "I'll be stopping by soon, is that alright?" My voice was temmbling like the tremors in the aftermath of an earthquake, rattling the windows to my soul. "Yeah, sure.. Is it urgent?" It was more urgent than I realized. I had already begun tugging at the lone, loose thread that would unravel my personal actuality without realizing. Before I knew it, the entire sleeve of the cloth of perception that had been draped over me would be gone. What would I do in bare existence? It's the dream that you have, when you're naked in the class room during the big exam. But instead of being in the flesh, I would be in the nothing at all, because that's all that would be left.