Thursday, March 23, 2017

Cold Blood Toothpick

It's late.

I don't know much anymore. Yet I know all. After sacrificing the depths of my consciousness for the glitter, alcohol and ash covered linoleum of human amenities, I find it hard to reattach the cranium that was knocked clean from my neck. It strains to reach the spacey, ethereal place I once inhabited. Hard to rid of the gluttonous fat that came packaged alongside the vacuum-sealed human.

Being the only one in your head. The sole voice you'll ever hear, rambling within that strange, indefinite concept we apply to the hunk of fleshy meat that rests in our skulls. The little creator of the universe. Oddly, considering it's rather regal position, it strives to become one with the characters it has envisioned. Trying to rid itself of the duties that come alongside said role; wanting to understand the twisted world that it's own psyche has violently smeared across the canvas of so-called reality. Yet, despite it's ventures to grasp the hallucinations it provides itself, it knows this feat is purely impossible. It knows the gash of blotchy red paint in which it travels - gazing at it wistfully, adoring it's supposed beauty with glossy eyes - has been specifically crafted to challenge, confuse, and horrify the poor soul who traverses it.

Sadistic. Constructive.

Being that voice - that adventurous little entity -  places one in the lone spotlight of an empty theater. Thrown in the Colosseum, pit unfairly against monstrous demons. As they snarl their frothing teeth, their arrows aim dead at your heart; eyes filled with the terrible static screams of those within, forms shifting and morphing endlessly as they adapt to your each and every tactical thought. These are the creatures in our heads. These are the painters of our realities. These are the deities who carefully observe, and rightfully torture; Angels with dirty faces.

It's practically morning.

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