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-
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.
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