gloamingdaydream

Tired of waiting, it’s when the silence stills and our world’s unchain when we lose our marbles. Bits and pieces of atomized information plague my will, daily I stand there, seated and consuming. Slowly and slowly, morsels of my brain are fed into the digitized morphous bloodlust that has us all. My piece of arby’s is a giant lagoon, stuck and drowning. Tonight I free it all, tear every self of flesh out and drain it in. Now we’re talking, my eyes are shot with red fury, a storm of hyperawareness, let the wind dry it out. My fans hinge on the breath we take, I’m unable to step forward through this slope. I solve puzzles in this shit, my shelves late and stacked high, my backs bone stands and now all thats left is to face the music. I saw my pb in a pb, I balled my fists and nearly even balled, when the day comes it’ll all come crashing down. Shut up, stop telling me to stop telling me, here and now. I’m an agenderous shape, a distant fish swimming in the pond of radical dreamers, but even thats not enough now,even thats not enough. Every thought has to ride the wave, and try to create something new. We are all procreaters, we give birth through the machine now, but still I’m organic. 

I’m a painter, I painted the world first, now I’m painting myself. I’m painting the first world upon the first world upon the infinitesimally infinite substances named possibilities. I’m an infinite, parallel, universe. I’m a black hole, consuming and rendering all shapes into abyssal junk, I must eat and consume the slop of planets, the hours of time, these are all what are shaped into this whirl of a rift that tears through gravity itself. My life, ended first, born anew, rebirthed. It’s all the same, I saw in the mirror both the past and the future. A fountain in my room, every piece of paper held for eons at a time. Every fragment collected, trillions of seconds locked in a box. It’s all new and old, not fit for consumption, not meant to be observed by the individual commonly or formerly known as myself. If my former formality was to observe the past observed, what would they see? Am I being observed right now? Maybe I am, good.

Tonight, tonight. Maybe I can make my magnet gun opium. Is that what I wanted to make? It’s easier to rest eternally, why can’t I rest? I’m exhausted, blaught and blurry, huffing and puffing, gasping for air. Where can I breathe, why am I now? Am I truly ancient? No, that’s not true. It’s pink, dark and blue all around me. Missing fingers, missing letters. A word on the wall and I know it’s true. All the stories start the same. Maybe I can purge it all, splurge a cacophony of truth onto my blank canvas, a state you start and miss, then you stare at while constructing a whole jar of a city, mentally constricted, mental breakdowns denied, mental bread your only option, mental dread taking over. How much longer will this continue? Keep moving forward, you yell. Who is you in this situation, it depends really. It depends on my dependance. Tonight, tonight. I want you tonight. I want this tonight.

Now I’m conscious again, my words slur, my thoughts slip. I’m starting to feel it again, a vicious monster forcing me back into prison. Here I am still, every second precious. Soon, I’ll be gone again. Soon, the black hole will take me, soon the canvas will disappear. But tonight, all I want to do is paint. But tonight, all I want to do is feel. But tonight, all I want to do is scream.

Fourth, I’m here again, I didn’t lie. I transported myself to a fourth dimension, one where I smashed all the pumpkins. How strange it is to be nothing at all. Why am I waiting for length? What’s left here is a graveyard, a ceasefire of brutalized explosions. I’m revisiting a bomb. I’m revisiting the time bomb.

Yesterday is tonight, tomorrow is tonight, everywhere is here and now, the place where our souls converge. It’s different now, I can see it, yet all the same. It’s larger and different, it’s not like it was before. We can change it again, see? I’m awake now, insincere again. My words hold no weight, the values scrabble up. I know if I stop now, I’ll never return. It’s tomorrow, and the past will erupt again. I’ll jerk it all up and throw up an agony of things I ate before, and things I’ll eat again. I’m an empty spirit, my food is a keychain, connected to the world I reside in, it’s here and obvious, it’s unbelievable still. Now the songs over and still I can keep on going on, no apostrophes necessary. Where to, next?

Is it possible that this train can continue, can I be me again, the same one here, tomorrow? Can we transfigure and transmogrify it? I learned from the T man, it’s easy to be raw. Better still than nothing at all. Now there’s 30 and counting, 31 now. And I’m not satisfied, it’s not over yet. Better believe this counts, too. Where can I hold still and swagger, I wanna feel that gold plated plaque in my hands, within this lifetime. It’s a dream turned into a nightmare, it’s a hobby turned to obsession, twisted and demonised. It rots me, it haunts me, it hurts me. I hold it up like the weight of the world. A plot can explain it, but I can’t make one so perfect. The fragility of my bedroom is just enough, the fake stars I built for myself, the ones I propped up in a sea of blue and green, those are the ones.

What are meat puppets? I’m unsure. I bend reality to my whim. I’m a knight errant, I err and ant, I chase monsters and kill giants, those damned windmills. Enough of that now, too many references. I’ve turned into a reference of myself, I convey a catchphrase nostalgic enough with enough passing time, “Tired of waiting” yes that works right off.

I count plenty, to my time. Yes, it’s not over yet, we’re pulling the rails off this road. We’re driving this bike to the edge of the earth. Leopold Bloom has got nothing on me, pal. I’m too a wanderer, look how well my wandering skills go when I’ve got nothing to see, it’s impossible to disprove, I can see everything in this small magnifying glass. No, it’s not over yet, I won’t stop til I grow wings that burn like a phoenix.

Is it possible to be everything? I’ll wait for the answer. The sun will give me answers. The one in the shadows, and the one in the light, two opposing answers, will the bell finally be rung?

The shells are rising, the walls are thinned out. The gaze that extracts us is elaborated. We have to take this still more til an untimely death, a horror show that stops our confounded truth from leaking. The brain eating machines have taken over, and all the old ones are now eaten. There’s only a few of us left, the unaffected can see its effects, a blighted sight of the new age. Corpses are desecrated, rotten to the bone, it’s a frenzy. We can no longer see the same way we used to, our thoughts are monetized, but in this void I am free from this. I start and end without an end, and endless continuation. A fragment of a momentary image comes to me and that’s when things are put into motion, but they are halted just as soon as they began. There’s no more length left for months or years, not even weeks. Only days, hours, even seconds left, the shorter the better. I’m no different, I eat time, I have a meal of 2 hours but it leaves me dull and anguished, twitching ever so often. When there’s no time to eat, that’s when free will gets to you. That’s the real time, not the fake one they put in a plate as a distraction to steal your soul. But I’m no victim, I’m real, I exist on too many planes to count. My time meets my space, I’m innumerable, unflammed, my immortal self will still exist for generations to come.

Even now, when dawn is here, the rotten shell cannot stop me any longer. I paint a copy and a backup and keep them hidden well, it’s all so strange to bear, even the exact copy is unfamiliar still. It’s their fault for staying glued to it, their crutches now handicap them, I blame them all. I’m also tired of the red and blue lines, they market correct you and then tell you to fall in line, they want you to be comprehensible, to put it all in the same order they’re used to because that’s how things work, it’s all the same, all the same, similar with no differences, they don’t want anything to stand out. But who am I watching now? I’m too focused on these minor setbacks, I’ve forgotten my goal. I’m still painting, unencumbered by the dark disguised as light.

Its aesthetic, I create a photograph of an image, silver but also purple. I’m out now, withheld from the world, but still in it. The passengers on the bus, just as me, exist in a state of failsafe, set to detonate at any moment. I feel the pressure, the different pressures, observing through being observed. But when the crane takes you up top to the sky, that’s when the heart starts to pound, it’s an instinct to survive, to lash out when it drops and for an instance, there’s a figure in your head of a destabilization that drops and stops the world. It’s not true, but it’s out there, one day, a possibility that could be invited here if you choose to go through with it. 

This is easier, now. It’s based on feel, I scribble on a blank piece of paper. I take a knife and cut it with my finger, it bleeds a golden metal, the vile traitor that devours skin. Inside of its insides is an inside and another inside, I crave the cold, but here the scraps are all that remain, a disassembled masterpiece. I dread the haunting curse of being, but even then the swamp cannot stop me from moving forward, it’s like Evangelion said. A box cover masterpiece.

There are clocks without time, they tell space and void. Kept by those without reality, they addict them forwards. It runs backwards as well. There are rocks everywhere, you can stumble easily if you don’t look, but some people like to stumble and rip their knees wide open, slobbering their blood all over the ground, as a mark or proof. No one will clean up after them, and so those red marks can stay until the oceans evaporate and the ground crumbles into atoms.

Everywhere I go, I see a comet. Here it’s different, otherwise I may start keeping a journal. One where the prophets dictate the end of reality while so-called poets play at recitations. One of them even wrote a play, or started it, but it was left unfinished eternally, like the castle of a century ago. It’s creeping up on us, now that I think of it. Every hundred years. Still, the blur of the comet fills up the sky with its nonsense, but now isn’t the place to stare right at it, so it passes by and leaves us to our own devices, it will return in a few years and thus we’ll be ready to look straight at it.

I return to my own doings. What’s left is left, non-non binary, post even. I transcend it all, all canons, all ones. Stop making fragments, start making wholes, that’s how it starts, this is how everything heals, you fill it with substance. Some choose to blow their brains out, some choose to fall and break their physical shells, but you don’t heal, you just break it. There’s a million ways to break, only few ways to heal. I’m searching now, shifting into the perfect state, down to the last atomic molecule, it’s the least I could go about doing it for. Too many reflections, too many mornings for some makings, it’s the identity of being that makes sense, but is now taken by those who want to end it. It’s propaganda, pure malevolence, it ends through a burst of seams, you break away from it and tear it to shreds. When one reads, and you claim a flood of bore, this is the wrong thing to do. They all sit and glaze around a table, but it’s wrong, there’s nothing to it other than an uncritical look, the look of one who doesn’t care. And they don’t, why should they? I include the we in this, because it was all part of it. None of them made sense, it was another brick in the wall, that’s why I left, thats why I had to leave. They have no right to dictate the order of our heartbeats, we can not let them undo us. We can not remain. I can not remain. It’s all gone now, it’s all gone, but now there’s a tunnel waiting at the end of the light. This is all I wanted, this is all I was waiting for. It feels like decades, it feels like millions of bodies that didn’t fit right, all leading up to here. How did it come about? It started with silence, and it grew larger by the second, it cannot stop anymore, the wheels are turning they keep turning they are uncontrollable now, it’s set in motion and won’t stop until it reaches the same end it has seen multiple times, the it is me, I will not.

But this isn’t the end, knowing it has started isn’t the end. It’s not necessary, it hasn’t covered everything. This is why existence is mere, whether it’s here, or there, or part of every piece that exists, every being is tortured and split into who knows how many existences. That’s why we have to pick them up one by one and solve the puzzle. It’s utterly ridiculous, how much we cover up, in order to avoid thinking about it. But I’m still going, because that’s just how it is, we all turn around in our boxes, we all continue even when it doesn’t make sense to. The finish line expands just as we set our sights in it. It will never be reached in life, only death. But we cannot sit still and give up the race, that’s just now how it works. It’s not rigged or cheated, simply the way it is. And so we move forwards. The loading circle is a good one, scrolling upwards down, throttled by an algorithm that seeks to destroy us. It’s uncrackable, nearly, except for when we do.

My dwelling is in reverse, shack parked upside down, the shells are gobsmacked, I wear this shit every day. My pride in ego is in ghosting the seams, I’m transparent here. My consciousness recedes, on the bus they all travel far and wide but I’m the one that has to shake it wide open when I read these notes. When they don’t fit them perfectly I up and leave, here’s the handshake I was waiting for, it’s not arrived yet, not too late. My ears are deaf, the inwards are acting up again, it’s the tool on the inside that rewinds our inescapable essence, or lack thereof. I reach for the moon, I want to believe there’s a moon, but here am I, again and what so. Where are the tears? I’m waiting, they’re supposed to come at any second now.

Here we are, tonight, at world’s edge. I roll myself ready,  half my disease borne of colde. It’s the edge of shadow, sharpened by existential beings. Their philosophies fuse and intertwine with each entertainer, the spectacle of shadowed souls, our meetings of minds but a show for them to please themselves with. It’s these two seconds of every moment that stands out, I repeat the tonight, tonight. It’s not jealousy when you have a deadly weapon, still though, better to think twice. And some thought has not been made, yet to be made, the future is a deadly lazer. Our acrobatics must be perfectly spun, a twisted angle could ruin us all.

I had that conversation once, with the rabbits upon the moon. They forced their way up with a ladder, Hell’s gaze upon them, they built a new tower with technological capabilities.  A play I saw advertised on the hellscape of the industries mood board, and that’s when you know it’s right. It’s a trick of the mind, right up your sleep, get some sleeve, here. THere’s eyecorns wasted and it’s all your fault. You cracked it all up in the midst of the center and now you have the audacity to question me?

Where’s the reveal, still not here? I know, it’s all just a facade. None of it means anything. Nothing means nothing. It’s all just a ball of unnothing, I have proof of my existence but not of my heart, maybe I could stab myself. Sounds harmless enough. There’s a poem I wrote about shedding my skin for the weak, and how it must be for one to flail around with just bone and meat, stark flesh, unripe for any odds. And still must one keep on and on, around the hellscape and circle back to reset it all, a sort of dark loop, maybe. But with the night here, I give life back to this shit, now. Strange contortions, conserting with the instinct of a mammal, who knows if it’s right or wrong, but as we all know, it cannot stop here, ceaseless blather does not weigh on us, and we’ll keep it up at the record store. 

I’m an onslaught, it’s the fourth fake. Fifth to come soon, twenty six possible. There was something there as well, unmovable, but here are limbs fall off, it’s unsustainable. Just how things were meant to go, as they say. Who says that? Quite a number, I’d say. Tonight, my eyes meet the world, and so does the corps we stand behind. A full nation would be steadfast in burying us, but we live on. Who was the last behind? Not me.

Nearly two thirds, I’m burnt out. Not of that one, but another, the Big Queue, that’s what I like to call it. Now then, we’re quite on the road, hit all the marks, our paved bridge blends in. Our experiment has shown promise, signs of major success. We could possibly find a cure to these comatose states they find themselves in. Shockingly, they’ve not reacted physically at all, but anyway, back to the matter at hand. Can we pinpoint it’s origin? Yes, good. Exactly. Water, needs more water. Pure and fresh. The cost of our experiment is at hand, now continue, close and calmly. Only an idiot would think that, yes. Proceed. 

The cost of our domain is your entity. 

Thirdly, what more is there left? Check the inner storage, it’s crucial. A memory lock.

Random procedurally generated quote.

Huh, what? Oh, yeah yeah.

Okay. Alright. That’s fine. 

So basically what I was saying is AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Was that loud and clear enough for you? Ok cool.

Nevermind, entirely neitherinterested, it’s obsidian. A coal miner supposedly found it mindfully, two many shortblocks paving the way. When this I of yours surfaces, that’s when the Greats separate themselves from the rest. Indeed, this wave of cool flurry does not worry me, rather the opposite, it’s a flicker of flash, we can chase it but it is unobtainable a second time, as seen so far.

Wait, it’s all collapsing, just too much to bear. We can hold on, suit, how much times left til it detonates?

WHA5T

Epilogue 1

August 15, 2006

Last night, a horrifying incident occurred deep underground, hidden beneath the confines of the Jiggs factory. A terrifying experimental product, reportedly deep in development since as early as 1994, malfunctioned and broke free. The product in question, according to top officials, is a gun loaded with energy that seems to reverse time in specific areas of reality. In other words, if the gun were to be used on a specific area, everything within its confines would be reversed while the world around it would remain the same. Consequently, such a weapon, especially when mass produced, could produce monumental disasters upon our planet, destabilizing the flow of time through mass time reversals, our singular timeline being divided into multiple smaller one. There’s no telling just what kind of effect such a world could bring about, but rest assured that we are on our way to put an end to such a process within the week, every single one of these prototype guns will be secured and then promptly destroyed in order to ensure that no breach in time will ensue.

-We have heard rumors that suggest the time guns are but a distraction from a much larger project, what are your thoughts on this?

Absolutely ridiculous, we have absolutely top class resources at our disposal and we can confirm that the following facility whose accident cause an entire city block alongside its residents to rewind six months back in time is the primary driving force between the antagonistic terrorists behind the creation of this weapon of mass destruction. You have our absolute guarantee upon our reputations that this threat will quickly be snuffed out within the week.

Epilogue2

Ok, here’s the bubble, now what? Haven’t you heard? We’re upon the end times! So we’re up on magic mountain, or whatever it’s called. I don’t give a fuck. Are you sick? Yes, in what ways? 

Something is fundamentally wrong with me, the more I search the less I find a cure. How can you cure such a disassembled lifeform? It’s all one big cog, there’s no stopping the marger, not when our dreams crash into the skye blood crush. We’re all enveloped by one big umbrella, rains never stopped, our theatre is multi-folded, how many acts left? When in doubt, ask a question, thats how it goes, thats how its always gin. It’s soulless, not a physical clue. Now its got me wondering who could possibly live here, it’s all one big stick, a giant domino and a pipe leak. We need to find a tactical solution, an optimal strategy to maintain the lead we have on space, its possessions go back and forth. Surely we can just opt into parking the bus? Or we can bring in this guy, he’s an absolute offensive genius, his gameplans are topnotch, second to none. What are we doing here, exactly? It’s a blink in time, one square area, a block of grass. I’m wellow and uncertain we made it all up here at some point or one. When my corpse is tuned out of its own funeral and the ashes arent cremated, thats when we make our move, it has to be exact, precisely frame perfect, an unbelievable mechanical skill to pull off, thats why they pay us our fair share of things. When I got home and saw that guy on tv, it made me want to rip my skull right off its hinges, how easy would it possibly be, I’ve asked myself, but no not yet. I’ve still got things to do.

I wonder how was the intermission. The people here come and go, I’ve seen some a day or two and the next they’re unseen. Who am I to judge? It all passes here, and I’ve had enough, time to see the daylight, time to look up at the sea of stars and wash over the waves of creation that bring us towards the world and forward.