The story so far:
May 13, 2008
It's my birthday in three days. And everytime my thoughts happen upon that thought, I shudder. It's like an orgasm, one that laps over me in rich wave after waves. Warm, tingling, black waves. Today it's a little harder not give into the blackness, the abyss that haunts my periphery. Perhaps it's stalking me, perhaps not. Perhaps I am stalking it. I like that.
As the faces around me gleamed greasily beneath the flourescents, I steadied myself with the thought that things may change, forever.
It excites me to think that they will. To think that I may break free of this skinsuit of shame and unanswerable urges. To think I may...
No, I won't tease myself.
I smiled today, breifly. A play at normalcy. A play on emotions that left me drained, but I couldn't show them that. I remain aloof, following instructions, not a bit of trouble.
I know they watch me.
I'm beginning to think that they know about me, the urges, the red sprays I envision as they talk at me. Yes, at me. They talk as if I'm some Silly Putty man. That if they talk forcefully enough I'll have no choice but to imprint their message in me.
They're wrong. I'm not following directions so much as I am compiling a list. Oh, the things I would do...
I want to give in.
Even as I write this, a part of me resists.
As she whined in that nasaly timber of helplessness, I began to wonder what she smelled like. I wonder how her screams would sound as I squeezed and throttled. I wonder how she would feel if I **** her with every phallic-shaped object in the room. The Eifel Tower, The Statue of Liberty, Patrick from Spongebob.
Would she scream? Would she plead with me or would she turn to god?
I also wonder at the feeling of impending destiny these thoughts bring me. They inflate me, make me hard. For a few short moments the trance persists and I become the world, but its always short lived. I always come back here. The same lolling tongues and screams, the same feet shuffling, the familiar pathetic groans.
Who will it be? A woman? A man? Or, perhaps, I won't even know once the blackness catches me or I catch it.
The real world hides beneath insanity. Where else would the real world be? An insane world is kept sane by those who understand it. Who nurture it. Who feed it and offer it sacrifices.
The world is sharperm when you're insane. The lines more defined, the feelings large and echoing, cavernous. And as it threatens to swallow us we can accept the fate of death. I can cut myself, the long way, severing the artery laterally. Or I can swallow back, absorb the absurdity back within myself where it can be reborn.