Ψchoses: June 2014

Catnap

10:05 am

The birds lined up in a tight circle around him, but neither did he notice or care about them. His fists grinding into his ribcage as he was laying there, he just kept munching on the throat that was still weeping fresh streams of blood. The part just under the collarbone turned out to be extremely delicious and well worth the neck-snapping angle he had to force his head in to get to it.

The unbearably hot and stuffy dusk air stood still all around him. Beaks chattering behind him, crickets going crazy on their bio-violins, and yet the descending darkness found him wrapped thick in a cozy, silence-induced meditation. He thought - maybe dreamt - of lives and deaths and cycles and then smells and tastes and how they intertwine. His chin, resting on the carcass of the antelope still, was slowly getting wet from that tiny geyser that just didn't seem to deplete anytime soon.

He was not touched by his mind's little entertainment. He didn't get upset nor did he question where did all that come from and why. He watched and listened. The little puffs of air rushing about invisibly around his nose sometimes danced into his lungs and stretched until they moved out again, stirring the short and strong fur with body-hot rushes.

His mind was doing the possibility-game; it rooted into the present and branched into the future. On each branch, simultaneously, it showed him how it would turn out for him to wake and move. What it would mean for him in the longer run to get a mouthful of fresh water first and then scratch a treebark only after. How it would mean an absolutely different ending if he did it the other way round, not even to think about the consequences of maybe chasing a lizard for a while in between.

He opened his mouth and let out a silent roar of a yawn directed right at the face of the lonely moon. Eyes still closed, he balanced lightly on the thin line between the two sides of consciousness. Slowly, sounds began trickling through the protective bubble of numbed awareness.

automatic writing

Automatic Writing Exercise

7:13 am

And it was the same soulless afternoon when he got all those off emotions, possibly from the sugar high conquering his brain. Walking towards the car he wished he was standing still whilst breathing in the night air so very pregnant with the promise of a storm. He didn’t though.

Technically, everything that whizzed through his mind was just another series of quotations from people dead or forgotten. Plagiarizing as a way of existence. Every consonant a copy. Probably generations off from the original, that didn’t even get to the references page. All this being stolen, and reused, since we’re trash anyway.

But that air, inhaling it it forces your chemically unbalanced brain to rush you into feelings of imminent danger, of perhaps genetically encoded, primal fear, of that half-smiling wicked terror that only lasts while there’s an equal amount of enjoyment involved.

No raindrops, no. Just that delirious smell promising something mundane and otherwordly.

Not even a silent, summer lightning.

You might think of the smell of rain, but that’s not it. That’s the remaining biological stuffing of the earth rotting after the shower. Bits of grass and dead matter and all that. Rotting. The thing you mean by liking the smell of rain, it’s pretty much you adoring the literal smell of death. Which I find very romantic of you, you know. I like that.

Oh yeah, the bloke sniffing the night air from before? That’s me, I just didn’t want to attract any attention. You know how it is with anxiety, you never really want to be seen unless you know the person.
When I say know-

So since we’re sharing and all, I feel I can talk to you in my own voice now. How have you been?

No, no, I really care, it’s just this smell is messing me up right now. You see, your brain does all these tricks and you just pretty much get used and abused by it. This is what the Buddhist guys go against, but that’ll be a long story and I would honestly hate to bore you with it this time.

What I mean is, I don’t mean to get derailed from this thought now.

When you sip from that slavic cola thingie, you get that massive sugar rush that I assume has at least twenty more additions to mess you up, but let’s just go with me being smart and the sugar causing it all this time.

So you drink that and you get this boost in your brain activity for a while and it sort of breakdances all over your brain’s imaginary piano, triggering all those different parts. And then you babble and blurt out stupid and fantastic stuff that nobody can really tell apart. Thankfully, nobody listens to you anyway, because, you know, they’re all up their colon, humming something that was very hip the year they last looked around outside.

And then you get this emotion overload and it’s pretty much like feeding speed to an entire zoo, and then opening the gates. Like, kids included.

So kittens and funny humans become suddenly all ‘aw’ and ‘lol’ until you get distracted by your failure as a human being and get pushed on your bed by your brain again, all collapsed and teary.

And then people come and talk to you about love and hopes and blackmail you invisibly into believing their version for a while. You give sound advice and think highly of yourself and as the music changes, you sing along and smile at the closed balcony door. Maybe you throw your hair a little, I don’t know, I’m not there.

Honest, I’m not watching or anything.

Where was I again?

Oh, the smell, yeah. I guess your ickle nose picks up on smells anyway, but it’s that heightened sense-making, that’s what makes you go shivery and excited about a storm that might not even come. Heightened by the sugar boost, was that clear? I sometimes talk slower than I think and leave stuff out.

But you’re such a bright little thing, you already know how all this is going to end, don’t you?

I feel like I should tell you, the thing about artists being read, they’re the fans and not the appreciative readers. They get all the jollies from being read and quoted. They get a little orgasm everytime you smile while scanning the lines. They really do.

Some get off on tears or those gasps, you know, but since they do the god-thing it’s always nicer to use only the smile as an example. They have worse reputation than gods, nowadays.

Saying that I haven’t really been reading the papers, is that still true? Or did gods fall to give way to them? Do they still take applications?

Eh?

I just stopped to think about my life being a failure for a bit, so he will go now and check on that storm if it arrived behind all that music and the Big Brother doing the dance all night again. He will probably smoke for a while and think about how the lucky beings never get born in the first place.

birth

Devil's Deal

2:02 pm

You know, the thing about loneliness is exactly how they say it is: you don't really feel alone until there's somebody to talk to. Loneliness unwraps its dusty wings only when you begin to silently choke on all the words, on all the poison you're unable to spit out. The moment you can open your mouth and not agree and react and reassure with it, all that tension and spite is gone. Venting, they call it, a way too innocent and clean expression that is so misleading to hear. For you aren't really just exhaling your troubles away, you're twisting and turning and slowly getting impregnated with a thought, then you suffer through a long verbalization and realization period and end it with an excruciating and shaky birth. Even after that you're weak and vulnerable and any said line that may be understood as mildly offensive can wound you to the core. Possible leading to years of healing, simply because you get hurt for being honest. For letting the guard down.

And yet you do, you do go to the friend and occasionally stop nodding and gather all your strength to finally get rid of that demon spawn hatching inside you, eating you away from the inside - And just after the bitter placenta of your horrific insides, you get shot down. You get slashed, right in the face, in your blabbering mouth, stabbed in your trusting heart and tearful eyes. The one you trust misreads you, turns away, trivializes you. They just plain start their own little story. They continue. And your hands shake as you raise them to shield the wound, to at least hide away the blood. Not that they'd see it anyway. They don't look.

And then you either go all defensive and hurt and never let an honest word leave your lips again about yourself, or you choose to embrace your own solitude and spawn your demonic child and befriend it. Should you choose the first, you may continue to enjoy the luxuries of friendship and companionship, all those tiny heart-warming things humans can do for you as long as you keep from getting too personal with yourself. What I mean is, sacrifice yourself on the altar of The People. So you wouldn't be alone. So the people who don't realize you might need to not only listen, but talk, too, keep you by their side. Because they might even love you, they might even believe they do, act like they do, or tell you they do. It's just they don't know you enough to learn how to listen. To not just sit and wait for their turn, but to physiologically alter their ears to hear your words, what you have to say. They may not care enough to learn that. They may not realize they need to. But the outcome is still the same:you'll have to bury you to survive. Should you go down the evil road, the path of the unknown and bestial; should you choose to carve the demon out of your body with pain and tears and blood only you can see, then will relief get to you. You will breathe again, holding your burden in your arms you will be able to draw the night air into your wheezing lungs. And you will look around and there will be nobody on that path save the two of you. You and your demon. And you will feed its tiny body rocks and minerals and dust, until it becomes the unbreakable companion that is from you, that came of your mind and flesh. It will protect you, yes, it won't let a breathing thing come close to you ever again, to hurt you, to touch you. To love you. It will keep the world with all its eccentricities at bay, out of arm's and sight's reach. And even though it will only live on some yellow paper, tarnished and crumpled by the ages, it will be with you forever, keeping you alone. It will impregnate you with more of its kind and you will begin to breed swarms of monsters that live in you and then on their world of paper only you can access. And you will always bleed. You will feel heavy and broken a lot. These demons though, they will chant and curse and dance to provide you with endless numbness and nepenthe, so you would bleed, but not cry as you would otherwise. And you will live.

And should you die one day, they will live on, breeding your mind into the cycle of forever.

Catnap

Automatic Writing Exercise

Devil's Deal

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