0428131645 My thoughts fall like rain, burdening me like trillions of gallons of water, leaving me with nothing to do but swim in the dark confusion. My thoughts on life send me spinning, for life seems but a cyclic action – consuming only to convert the food into energy only to forage to consume, yet again. Amoebas swim among me, unconcerned of right or wrong, with no sense of purpose, consuming and swimming carelessly until they are consumed themselves. Things like purpose beget confusion and needless contemplation, slowing down an organism. It is but an extra limb to drag along. So why do I bother to write? Why draw what I see or think? Why dissect and document these thoughts? Will these thoughts, like the fibers and graphite I render them onto, become but dust in the wind? Am I lighting myself a torch, or mending a crutch, as I am already damned, dragging my lame limbs through the tall grass in darkness as glowing eyes approach.
Purpose seems so existentially arbitrary, as though it was a set of random rules to a childish game made for the amusement of those picked first, and those picked last are the ones who ask too many questions, and do not want to play games in the first place. It is not myself I loathe, but this flesh and the world I must drag it through. When I become fully conscious of myself and soul, and am able to direct it, I find I am pulling an overturned boat through the current, seeming to gain no distance from the waterfall. I must not pull my vessel. I must employ it, conduct it.
Perhaps purpose is not a set of silly rules… perhaps it is more like chemistry, a vessel itself… in the same way a puddle returns to the sky so that it may fall elsewhere on the earth… or the way a star bursts so that it may create other stars elsewhere in the universe.
The comet appeared in the sky once an age. Earth would wait as it returned on its elliptical orbit, gazing at the diamond with effervescent wings as it crossed the firmament. With each return, it would pass, coming closer to the morning star. After another age, the comet returned from darkness. The sun blew upon the comet as it crossed the morning gradient. Earth watched as it drew closer to pass its companion. Closer and closer until it disappeared into the pinhole in the heavens, never again to return to darkness.
Do not be ashamed or afraid of who you are. Belt or scream your name. Relent only for air.
0814. The streets were scarcely occupied. Humans and mutants shuffling and moaning in rags of filth. The rainbow of flashing lights lit the blowing litter and kites lost to the stratosphere. The telecast announced the importation of Europeans and Asians. 100s of millions. They had done something right, were productive, but overpopulation forced them overseas. And they came in like rows of freight trains, filling the width of the streets. Not stopping. Moving constantly. The natives fell into the lowest of the new caste. Crawling along the walls and pipes like rats. I lost my balance on a crowded gas line, falling into the cologne scented river of people below. Trampled and confused, I made my way to an unoccupied corner. I pulled a pet from my pocket. Not getting the comfort I had cried for, I squashed the pitiful genetic mistake beneath my fist. Its lifeless eye nestled in its tentacles grazing back at me…
I tried to make ends meet via various avenues. First as a street performer, but my dramatic entrance from a high-rise, riding on a dragon, had failed. I was shunned by own shame. From there, I found employment in a costume as some unknown merchandise mascot. Standing at an entrance, my face painted orange and white, only to be mocked and poked at…
Off shift, I was invisible. The swiftly passing crowd was not distracted by the orange and white, box-shaped clown sitting in the corner. I found myself among others dressed as merchandise. Their eyes as empty as my recently deceased pet’s. I wanted to give them hope, but first needed to find it for myself. Then a melody warmed my weary mind. I was inspired. I gathered trash, whatever made a crackle, twang or thump. Whatever the wind blew in my direction. I convinced the others to follow me to a clearing. All with instruments ready to play, I started with an elastic string tethered to a telephone pole covered in flyers. I began with three notes in a measure. Building. Progressing. The flyers rattled, vibrating like cymbals. The others began to play along. The crowd intrigued, diverted toward the music, spilling and flooding around us. They too grabbed elastic strings and began to play. The concentrically spinning orchestra filled the air. And I was elated on that swinging carousel.