You can’t disappear here, I am already gone, a ghost of my ideal self, person you wish to rescue you from the dark angles bearing down on you. I am a flame, a nightmare, a cloven-hoof vision that is inverted and bloody, woven into the patterns of a life that was lost in the rain, in the Spring, in a million deceptions, secrets, secrets, secrets…”everything will come out eventually.” They keep telling me that. I cringe and think about a stinging sensation in my neck, as I am inundated by unsolicited pep talk.
Just another day. We all need one more day. It will all be okay tomorrow. Pinned-out eyes, ground-up teeth, the hours that repeat themselves–the eerie eternity. The silent misery, the collective sigh of death heaved on the shoulders of ants, and bees, killing themselves over labor, over love, over the nuanced mystery that leave us all in rooms talking about nothing, waiting to die. I am a crisis, a mission, a darkness before the light. My words are born before the sun, I read imaginary things, moonbeams and transcribe death-threats to people I don’t know , a most unreliable narrator. There is nothing here, but twisted folly.
There is love; it always exists. I look for it under bushes and blankets. Find cotton balls and wooden pennies. But, I have nothing you are looking for. I am as confused and disturbed as are the best and worst of us. There are dark circles cut into my skin, alien molecules and microscopic hammers and sickles in my eyes. You are looking for something normal, warm blankets and clean sheets. But most of us are broken or boring, defeated, worm food already, munching on television and blindness. There is no escape from the death. Delusion is not an option. The rumbling on the horizon is real. Personal Apocalypse is nigh. Everything here has been tainted, covered in blood; Satanic verses loop backwards. The gore is all over me. I am sorry. There is nowhere to disappear here!
David Augustus Smith