03/15/04
I don't recall actually leaving the rest stop, but after spending so much of my time there in a delirious daydream, that's not really a surprise. I found myself in my car blasting a new CD, windows down, and gliding down a stretch of Americana.
I didn't realize until I stopped for gas off the parkway. I was headed south, I was headed towards home.
My dreams have been plenty lately and the intensity of them has been draining to say the least. It's almost like my body would much prefer the simplicity of dormant identity. I find myself talking to old friends and revisiting boyhood haunts. But I'm seeing them as they are now, not as I recall them. They're changed, hacked up, and shown as something completely new. Something clean.
A beautiful blue sky lies open above me, welcoming me to this world of possible unity. It's hard to say but hope is stronger in me than ever. Something happened to me back there at that rest stop. I feel stripped of my pain and confusion.
I look at the cracked concrete between my feet as if seeing such a sight for the first time. I see it as if it were the most important thing in the world. It might be, but then this cold metal gas pump in my hand is no less important, nor the many ordinary things that dance the daily routine around me.
With the change from the last of my money I get a bottle of water and a bagel. Once out on the road again I've found that the bagel is the best I have ever had. My final meal before facing whatever is coming before me now. I wash it down with the water and I swear I can feel my body breaking it down and converting it, sucking from it the nutrients it provides.
I take a break from singing at the top of my lungs to laugh heartily as I cross over the bridge and approach the tollbooth. I've always been afraid of bridges. Well, I used to be anyway. I hadn't thought about it in so long but now I can see this bridge just as I did when I traveled over it twenty years ago in the back seat of the family car.
Frantically worrying about paying the upcoming toll, my mind releases itself. I'm suddenly a kid again, sick from the smell of exhaust and the bouncing of the road, my mind slipping into a daydream not unlike the experience at the rest stop. A blurring of the edges, riding through the physical pain, and winding up somewhere in a place where all the rules you've made up for yourself no longer apply.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 8 - Sitting Alone
03/04/04
Sitting alone, quiet in my small defecation booth, I realize that I put up some sort of barrier impervious to entry. Secure in the knowledge that no ordinary citizen would attempt to slither underneath, nor parachute in from above. I was protected in this four by three excretion chamber. Although there were men in the stalls on either side of me, most likely engaged in the same shameful acts of natural behavior as I was, I felt distanced from them and from the threat they would normally present themselves as, outside of this rest stop bathroom.
Recognizing the power within my mind, assisted with the help of the two metal walls and the haphazardly locked stall door, I knew that I had it in me to protect my aura from these masculine intruders to personal safety. Here I was, just a child living in an adult male body, sitting alone in the great wide world, ruling my universe from a porcelain throne. Having reached this moment of safety and security opened doors in my mind, and I immediately wanted to extend my borders.
I exited the stall, having waited long enough for the guy next to me to remove himself from his lavatory cosmos, and went to wash my hands. I found myself looking into the mirror itself as I wrung my hands free from the dreaded bacteria. The oddest material I could imagine, one that so accurately casts back an imaginary self, projected an external self that is a lie constructed by the inner workings of our minds. A clever cover slid over insecurities and doubts. A construct of imaginings of the person we want to be. On the other side of this wall is the man I long to be deep in my heart.
Maybe mirrors show us more than we can imagine, if we look closely enough. A mirror is an inviting snare for the self-absorbed, allowing us to shallowly look upon ourselves not as we know ourselves to be, but instead as we appear to those around us. An impartial view of our shell, our scarred surface self that takes the brunt of our bumps and bruises. Swimming into sorrow filled eyes, I enter into the sacred center and truly evaluate. Distanced from the person being examined, I am able to penetrate into cellular psyche.
The water is scalding hot as I slide back into this reality. My eyes adjust to the surface of the mirror and I take in the room behind me. Men coming and going, leaving behind the waste that had built up in their bodies. Over my shoulder a man with an abnormally large penis is staring absently at the wall while urinating.
Sitting alone, quiet in my small defecation booth, I realize that I put up some sort of barrier impervious to entry. Secure in the knowledge that no ordinary citizen would attempt to slither underneath, nor parachute in from above. I was protected in this four by three excretion chamber. Although there were men in the stalls on either side of me, most likely engaged in the same shameful acts of natural behavior as I was, I felt distanced from them and from the threat they would normally present themselves as, outside of this rest stop bathroom.
Recognizing the power within my mind, assisted with the help of the two metal walls and the haphazardly locked stall door, I knew that I had it in me to protect my aura from these masculine intruders to personal safety. Here I was, just a child living in an adult male body, sitting alone in the great wide world, ruling my universe from a porcelain throne. Having reached this moment of safety and security opened doors in my mind, and I immediately wanted to extend my borders.
I exited the stall, having waited long enough for the guy next to me to remove himself from his lavatory cosmos, and went to wash my hands. I found myself looking into the mirror itself as I wrung my hands free from the dreaded bacteria. The oddest material I could imagine, one that so accurately casts back an imaginary self, projected an external self that is a lie constructed by the inner workings of our minds. A clever cover slid over insecurities and doubts. A construct of imaginings of the person we want to be. On the other side of this wall is the man I long to be deep in my heart.
Maybe mirrors show us more than we can imagine, if we look closely enough. A mirror is an inviting snare for the self-absorbed, allowing us to shallowly look upon ourselves not as we know ourselves to be, but instead as we appear to those around us. An impartial view of our shell, our scarred surface self that takes the brunt of our bumps and bruises. Swimming into sorrow filled eyes, I enter into the sacred center and truly evaluate. Distanced from the person being examined, I am able to penetrate into cellular psyche.
The water is scalding hot as I slide back into this reality. My eyes adjust to the surface of the mirror and I take in the room behind me. Men coming and going, leaving behind the waste that had built up in their bodies. Over my shoulder a man with an abnormally large penis is staring absently at the wall while urinating.
Monday, December 15, 2008
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 7 - Along Came A Spider
02/28/04
I awoke with a hot needle of sunlight being jabbed into not only the furthest reaches of my eyeball, but into my brain itself. I had drooled across the table that is firmly bolted to the floor of this establishment. I'm fairly certain that I awoke although I can't be certain. I can't remember my dreams, not one damn bit.
A dark skinned man in a rumpled, flashy suit briskly walked towards the front doors. He firmly pushed his way inside shoving along a slow-moving herd of American cattle. They stared at him with the most scornful of looks, absolutely condemning the man and telling him sternly his place in this polite society. All with one look.
The man made his way towards the line for the fast food joint. He waited impatiently while he seemed to radiate pulses of hostility towards all those around him. His hands shook, and his knuckles popped of their own accord.
Once he had received his meal and dispensed of the requisite funds, he immediately made eye contact with me. He stalked his way towards me, slicing through the harmonious vibes of weary vacationers and dazed and drowsy travelers. His aura slammed down the chair across from me as he slid into the seat.
He dropped the tray on the table. A rotten, chemically charged meat sandwich, slivers of potatomeat popsicles, and a acidic 64oz. soda pop.
"A meal fit for a meat machine." was all that he said while staring directly into my right eye.
"Nervous?" followed shortly after.
My silence was not a voluntary act but more of a direct instinct in this man's presence. He sat across from me but somehow surrounded me entirely. I had no escape from his influence. I was jealous and hated him instantly. He reminded me of everything I wasn't. Confident, secure, with purpose and will. He had enough raw determination stirring within him that I felt shamed and small. I curled up in his presence and feared his wrath.
"I probably shouldn't have come yet. Probably broke some rules or something." He hadn't acknowledged the stinking fried food that lay between us.
"You're not mad, you know."
I had slipped within myself and was now watching the scene take place as if watching my life from inside a television. Tears flowed freely.
"You're alone. For now. But they're the ones that are mad."
He had a reassuring tone all of a sudden. I twinged at his sudden shift in inflection and body language. What did he want?
"Anyway, I just wanted to say...hang around here as long as you like, but I swear if you're eating this shit...", his previous friendly shift in tone was to give this shift to fierce aggression all the more dramatic impact, "I will shoot you dead."
His eyes lingered with me longer than I had thought. It took me two minutes to realize that he wasn't still sitting across from me, but that his intense presence had actually carved itself across my mind's eye.
I awoke with a hot needle of sunlight being jabbed into not only the furthest reaches of my eyeball, but into my brain itself. I had drooled across the table that is firmly bolted to the floor of this establishment. I'm fairly certain that I awoke although I can't be certain. I can't remember my dreams, not one damn bit.
A dark skinned man in a rumpled, flashy suit briskly walked towards the front doors. He firmly pushed his way inside shoving along a slow-moving herd of American cattle. They stared at him with the most scornful of looks, absolutely condemning the man and telling him sternly his place in this polite society. All with one look.
The man made his way towards the line for the fast food joint. He waited impatiently while he seemed to radiate pulses of hostility towards all those around him. His hands shook, and his knuckles popped of their own accord.
Once he had received his meal and dispensed of the requisite funds, he immediately made eye contact with me. He stalked his way towards me, slicing through the harmonious vibes of weary vacationers and dazed and drowsy travelers. His aura slammed down the chair across from me as he slid into the seat.
He dropped the tray on the table. A rotten, chemically charged meat sandwich, slivers of potatomeat popsicles, and a acidic 64oz. soda pop.
"A meal fit for a meat machine." was all that he said while staring directly into my right eye.
"Nervous?" followed shortly after.
My silence was not a voluntary act but more of a direct instinct in this man's presence. He sat across from me but somehow surrounded me entirely. I had no escape from his influence. I was jealous and hated him instantly. He reminded me of everything I wasn't. Confident, secure, with purpose and will. He had enough raw determination stirring within him that I felt shamed and small. I curled up in his presence and feared his wrath.
"I probably shouldn't have come yet. Probably broke some rules or something." He hadn't acknowledged the stinking fried food that lay between us.
"You're not mad, you know."
I had slipped within myself and was now watching the scene take place as if watching my life from inside a television. Tears flowed freely.
"You're alone. For now. But they're the ones that are mad."
He had a reassuring tone all of a sudden. I twinged at his sudden shift in inflection and body language. What did he want?
"Anyway, I just wanted to say...hang around here as long as you like, but I swear if you're eating this shit...", his previous friendly shift in tone was to give this shift to fierce aggression all the more dramatic impact, "I will shoot you dead."
His eyes lingered with me longer than I had thought. It took me two minutes to realize that he wasn't still sitting across from me, but that his intense presence had actually carved itself across my mind's eye.
Monday, December 8, 2008
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 6 - A Million Burning Stars
02/28/04
I find myself drifting off to sleep randomly through the day. Recently I awoke from a mid-day's twenty minute nap that was the result of a concentrated hunger fast. I fine tuned the controls of my perception inputs and found that a female was standing before me.
She was adorned in the garb of the corporate slave state's official drug supplier uniform. Cash green and vacant white wrapped itself firmly around her person, seemingly strangling the life from her before my very eyes.
She questioned me on my odd behavior and napping tendencies. I played it cool and flashed her some wit and style, which transmitted as little more than incoherent babbling and pure lunacy. I'm going to have to learn how to properly cross channels of communication if I am to continue on this path.
A wash of information floods off of her as we surfacetalk for the better part of her fifteen free minutes away from the JavaGod, deliverer of the Instant Awareness. Rooting through the mess of her Self, I find a few tidbits of relatibility and sameness. There is a common spirit bellowing from deep within her. A spirit seeking ultimate liberation and dedication to a way.
My next clear memory is standing outside on the strip of pus-yellow grass that serves as the front lawn of the rest stop. I'm holding my arms out in a mock crucifixation as my soulport burns and aches with the sustained connection to pure Cosmos-spawn tendrils upgrading the software inside.
I'm teetering on the edge of the curb as I realize that my sense of date/time measurement has been properly dismantled. Twenty-nine hours since I last thought of the date, I now seek to destroy that countdown from deviation from cognitive timeframes.
The blaring horn of a truck causes the collapsing of my extended self, pushed simultaneously forwards and backwards in time. I run to the window to look in on my female friend and her chemically-charged, narcotic bean-drink administering only to find that this rest stop doesn't have a coffee stall.
Where am I? What is real? I'm jumping stations and can't find one that fits like a good reality should.
I find myself drifting off to sleep randomly through the day. Recently I awoke from a mid-day's twenty minute nap that was the result of a concentrated hunger fast. I fine tuned the controls of my perception inputs and found that a female was standing before me.
She was adorned in the garb of the corporate slave state's official drug supplier uniform. Cash green and vacant white wrapped itself firmly around her person, seemingly strangling the life from her before my very eyes.
She questioned me on my odd behavior and napping tendencies. I played it cool and flashed her some wit and style, which transmitted as little more than incoherent babbling and pure lunacy. I'm going to have to learn how to properly cross channels of communication if I am to continue on this path.
A wash of information floods off of her as we surfacetalk for the better part of her fifteen free minutes away from the JavaGod, deliverer of the Instant Awareness. Rooting through the mess of her Self, I find a few tidbits of relatibility and sameness. There is a common spirit bellowing from deep within her. A spirit seeking ultimate liberation and dedication to a way.
My next clear memory is standing outside on the strip of pus-yellow grass that serves as the front lawn of the rest stop. I'm holding my arms out in a mock crucifixation as my soulport burns and aches with the sustained connection to pure Cosmos-spawn tendrils upgrading the software inside.
I'm teetering on the edge of the curb as I realize that my sense of date/time measurement has been properly dismantled. Twenty-nine hours since I last thought of the date, I now seek to destroy that countdown from deviation from cognitive timeframes.
The blaring horn of a truck causes the collapsing of my extended self, pushed simultaneously forwards and backwards in time. I run to the window to look in on my female friend and her chemically-charged, narcotic bean-drink administering only to find that this rest stop doesn't have a coffee stall.
Where am I? What is real? I'm jumping stations and can't find one that fits like a good reality should.
Monday, December 1, 2008
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 5 - Lost Among the Lambs
02/22/04
I feel dementia setting in. It's come around knocking, like an old friend stopping by innocently enough to catch up on times. Under cover of a long, lost friend this parasitical leech has sucked you dry of the positive lifeforce flow you've built up.
I find myself attempting to engage people in conversations to find them always ring false, to find myself too concerned with the particulars to actually have a moment where my mind bridges the gap between us. I long for connection between my solitary world and the world of another. To find that my perception of reality is relatable to another.
This has led to a number of awkward stammers, and random looks. A whole parade of falsities and surface skimming. I have been unable so far to pierce the veil of fractured, broken Self-ness and find a true connection with another Mind here. I find myself alone among the loneliest, and sad among the saddest. Where is my contact? Where am I going?
I doubt myself and the mission.
I feel dementia setting in. It's come around knocking, like an old friend stopping by innocently enough to catch up on times. Under cover of a long, lost friend this parasitical leech has sucked you dry of the positive lifeforce flow you've built up.
I find myself attempting to engage people in conversations to find them always ring false, to find myself too concerned with the particulars to actually have a moment where my mind bridges the gap between us. I long for connection between my solitary world and the world of another. To find that my perception of reality is relatable to another.
This has led to a number of awkward stammers, and random looks. A whole parade of falsities and surface skimming. I have been unable so far to pierce the veil of fractured, broken Self-ness and find a true connection with another Mind here. I find myself alone among the loneliest, and sad among the saddest. Where is my contact? Where am I going?
I doubt myself and the mission.
Monday, November 24, 2008
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 4 - The End
02/16/04
I wake from a dream, although I'm not entirely sure that's what it was. Maybe it's my perspective that is being altered but it seems these dreams are just moments of unexistence. A few hours a night and in the morn you're feeling as fictional as you were the day before.
I feel like I may be damaging my host but according to the reports I'm receiving, it seems as if I have his full support. I finally begin to feel the tiniest hope of purpose or guidance.
The car has been psychoactively cut off from this plane of existence and is merging with another where someone so very familiar lies on a bed typing words and listening to music. We have reached an understanding it seems and the mission, although just as obscure as ever, now seems somehow refined.
I think god has spoken to me, or rather reached out to me and given me knowledge of the end.
I wake from a dream, although I'm not entirely sure that's what it was. Maybe it's my perspective that is being altered but it seems these dreams are just moments of unexistence. A few hours a night and in the morn you're feeling as fictional as you were the day before.
I feel like I may be damaging my host but according to the reports I'm receiving, it seems as if I have his full support. I finally begin to feel the tiniest hope of purpose or guidance.
The car has been psychoactively cut off from this plane of existence and is merging with another where someone so very familiar lies on a bed typing words and listening to music. We have reached an understanding it seems and the mission, although just as obscure as ever, now seems somehow refined.
I think god has spoken to me, or rather reached out to me and given me knowledge of the end.
Monday, November 17, 2008
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 3 - Fictional, Untruths, Lies
02/16/04
I've been sleeping, cocooned in a fetal position for the entire night, in my car at rest stops. I began driving north and now am no longer sure of my location. I've been eating at different spots along the road and spent the days reading and people watching.
Amazing places, these snippets of an elevated reality. A between place no more firmly rooted in the limitations of objective reality than the amusement parks of the world. Of course, rest stops are a more pure form of unreality. From day to day I see all manner of people engaged in all kinds of acts, their stop here just a bump along the road to their destination that lies just beyond the moment. A tomorrow return to the lives they knew or the boundless potential of a promise of a new life, in a new temporal location.
These places are simmering mirages, basking in the wavy bends of light and heat, a place that is but a footnote in your life story, a fraction of the mind spent on remembering its details which seem to slip from your grasp the more you try to hold on to them. Rest stops are out of phase with objective reasoning, as are all places of power and mystery. There the land still has the upper hand, defining itself beyond our limited grasp of its identity and role in the cosmic theatre.
It's in the parking lots of these unplaces, where I find myself recalling the moments where my mind would link with the greater mind of One. Where I would shake off my shell, flowing on the bonds of electromagnetic wavelengths, and otherwise deviating from norm perspective.
A malevolent tumor of cancerous imagination cells built up a power of personality that was so strong because of its disuse that once the connection with the higher powers was established, and the culture conformity viewer program was befuddled with the mantra of obscure madness (pure psycholaxative chaos haikus born of the moment), it had run for the nearest exit never looking back or wondering why. The program was running in the background, searching for a hook, which would allow systemic processing of the poetic-meme-deconstruction of my personae.
My life is a lie.
I've been sleeping, cocooned in a fetal position for the entire night, in my car at rest stops. I began driving north and now am no longer sure of my location. I've been eating at different spots along the road and spent the days reading and people watching.
Amazing places, these snippets of an elevated reality. A between place no more firmly rooted in the limitations of objective reality than the amusement parks of the world. Of course, rest stops are a more pure form of unreality. From day to day I see all manner of people engaged in all kinds of acts, their stop here just a bump along the road to their destination that lies just beyond the moment. A tomorrow return to the lives they knew or the boundless potential of a promise of a new life, in a new temporal location.
These places are simmering mirages, basking in the wavy bends of light and heat, a place that is but a footnote in your life story, a fraction of the mind spent on remembering its details which seem to slip from your grasp the more you try to hold on to them. Rest stops are out of phase with objective reasoning, as are all places of power and mystery. There the land still has the upper hand, defining itself beyond our limited grasp of its identity and role in the cosmic theatre.
It's in the parking lots of these unplaces, where I find myself recalling the moments where my mind would link with the greater mind of One. Where I would shake off my shell, flowing on the bonds of electromagnetic wavelengths, and otherwise deviating from norm perspective.
A malevolent tumor of cancerous imagination cells built up a power of personality that was so strong because of its disuse that once the connection with the higher powers was established, and the culture conformity viewer program was befuddled with the mantra of obscure madness (pure psycholaxative chaos haikus born of the moment), it had run for the nearest exit never looking back or wondering why. The program was running in the background, searching for a hook, which would allow systemic processing of the poetic-meme-deconstruction of my personae.
My life is a lie.
Monday, November 10, 2008
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 2 - Control
02/09/04
In the bathroom of a truck stop I found myself lingering in front of the mirror as I washed my hands. I looked up to meet my own eyes as they looked me over. Who was this character that substituted my reflection? It was almost as if I was supposed to recall the details of this alternately reflected creature, but upon deeper inspection I found that I was unable to place a name, place or purpose to it. The harder I tried to figure out who this was that had seized control of what I thought was my body, the less that seemed familiar to me.
I dismissed the fact that I could no longer tell what was a discernible reality with a shrug of my shoulders, and I watched my looking-glass doppelganger ape the movements in sync. Did I always look like this? In a way I want to say I did, but in a way this body felt new, somehow removed from my old one. Could my entire existence prior to these moments be nothing but fiction? A detailed schematic of a lie that I once called my Life has seemingly been pulled over my eyes as I continued to wage war against the reality that I was currently experiencing.
The past was full of doubt that left me with only the moment and the moment to come. It is those subtle transitions I must be aware of, for the more Cognitive I am during them, the stronger my sense of reality shall become. And if I am to make it out of this, I will need to have my wits about me, and to have some roadmap of where I've been.
Lost in a thought I slipped from frame of reference and began floundering along my Auric-wavelength. Phasing between time and space I found myself drifting along as the meat cleansed itself of tactile bacterial growth with scalding hot water and pink jism that served as soap. I bounced and rattled within as I fought my way back to the controls.
Things have been a bit touch and go since I was baptized in the Ether of Eternity. Reborn again into shape and form, I was corkscrewed back into flesh and mind, spiraling and rotating back towards full control. Flexing my tether to the Eternal Unconscious to glean tidbits of Truth, I scribble the info down in my journal as soon as possible hoping to identify the pattern upon thorough examination.
In the bathroom of a truck stop I found myself lingering in front of the mirror as I washed my hands. I looked up to meet my own eyes as they looked me over. Who was this character that substituted my reflection? It was almost as if I was supposed to recall the details of this alternately reflected creature, but upon deeper inspection I found that I was unable to place a name, place or purpose to it. The harder I tried to figure out who this was that had seized control of what I thought was my body, the less that seemed familiar to me.
I dismissed the fact that I could no longer tell what was a discernible reality with a shrug of my shoulders, and I watched my looking-glass doppelganger ape the movements in sync. Did I always look like this? In a way I want to say I did, but in a way this body felt new, somehow removed from my old one. Could my entire existence prior to these moments be nothing but fiction? A detailed schematic of a lie that I once called my Life has seemingly been pulled over my eyes as I continued to wage war against the reality that I was currently experiencing.
The past was full of doubt that left me with only the moment and the moment to come. It is those subtle transitions I must be aware of, for the more Cognitive I am during them, the stronger my sense of reality shall become. And if I am to make it out of this, I will need to have my wits about me, and to have some roadmap of where I've been.
Lost in a thought I slipped from frame of reference and began floundering along my Auric-wavelength. Phasing between time and space I found myself drifting along as the meat cleansed itself of tactile bacterial growth with scalding hot water and pink jism that served as soap. I bounced and rattled within as I fought my way back to the controls.
Things have been a bit touch and go since I was baptized in the Ether of Eternity. Reborn again into shape and form, I was corkscrewed back into flesh and mind, spiraling and rotating back towards full control. Flexing my tether to the Eternal Unconscious to glean tidbits of Truth, I scribble the info down in my journal as soon as possible hoping to identify the pattern upon thorough examination.
Monday, November 3, 2008
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 1 - Escape
02/04/04
The clichés were all present. Lined up in a row so as to make me believe this farce, this fiction that has been substituted for my life. I awoke in my room, yet it wasn't my room. I inherently knew that my position had been altered while I slept. I looked around at my "stuff" in my "bedroom" and instantly felt like I was on a movie set. Everything was there, in perfect disorder, but they felt hollow, empty, devoid of the sentimentality and nostalgic power I've imbued them with.
I began writing down my thoughts immediately in my journal, which was nearby. Hopefully I could reach my laptop and post these thoughts online and make my abduction known to all. Cautiously I left my bedroom to find my faux living room. Replacement couch, TV, bookshelf, DVDs, and computer, all sitting in the same place I had the originals for years. Through the small window above my desk I could see the day was a slate gray. Looking down at my computer I could see that they have cleverly left me access to the Internet. Truly nothing was out of place.
I made my way to the front door and stepped outside. Staring up at the massive gray dome miles above me, I knew then the trouble that my abductors had gone through to make this mock world. It was perfect and complete in its illusion of comfort and familiarity. I needed to escape as soon as possible.
I threw on some clothes, grabbed a backpack full of supplies I might need and ran out the door. I hesitated a minute or two in front of the fridge but decided that any food there may be tainted with any sort of hallucinogenic drug. I needed to maintain this clarity of thought if I am going to make it out of the confines of this pseudo-reality. I started up my car and slipped in some good driving music. I tore off down a simulation of the road I drove every day for the last three years.
So far everything was as it should have been. If it wasn't for the ache in the pit of my stomach, the panic buried deep within myself that I trusted more than my five senses, I could have easily have believed that this truly was my life. That this was my car that I was driving, down the street I live on, wearing the clothes that I got for Christmas. So seductive was the lie that something deep in me, possibly on a genetic level, was telling me to run. Somehow I knew that this deception was more than my willpower could possibly overcome.
The clichés were all present. Lined up in a row so as to make me believe this farce, this fiction that has been substituted for my life. I awoke in my room, yet it wasn't my room. I inherently knew that my position had been altered while I slept. I looked around at my "stuff" in my "bedroom" and instantly felt like I was on a movie set. Everything was there, in perfect disorder, but they felt hollow, empty, devoid of the sentimentality and nostalgic power I've imbued them with.
I began writing down my thoughts immediately in my journal, which was nearby. Hopefully I could reach my laptop and post these thoughts online and make my abduction known to all. Cautiously I left my bedroom to find my faux living room. Replacement couch, TV, bookshelf, DVDs, and computer, all sitting in the same place I had the originals for years. Through the small window above my desk I could see the day was a slate gray. Looking down at my computer I could see that they have cleverly left me access to the Internet. Truly nothing was out of place.
I made my way to the front door and stepped outside. Staring up at the massive gray dome miles above me, I knew then the trouble that my abductors had gone through to make this mock world. It was perfect and complete in its illusion of comfort and familiarity. I needed to escape as soon as possible.
I threw on some clothes, grabbed a backpack full of supplies I might need and ran out the door. I hesitated a minute or two in front of the fridge but decided that any food there may be tainted with any sort of hallucinogenic drug. I needed to maintain this clarity of thought if I am going to make it out of the confines of this pseudo-reality. I started up my car and slipped in some good driving music. I tore off down a simulation of the road I drove every day for the last three years.
So far everything was as it should have been. If it wasn't for the ache in the pit of my stomach, the panic buried deep within myself that I trusted more than my five senses, I could have easily have believed that this truly was my life. That this was my car that I was driving, down the street I live on, wearing the clothes that I got for Christmas. So seductive was the lie that something deep in me, possibly on a genetic level, was telling me to run. Somehow I knew that this deception was more than my willpower could possibly overcome.
Friday, September 26, 2008
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA - Prelude
10/16/03
Looking down at the bullet-riddled corpse at his feet Agent Spider counted thirty eight separate entry points. A quick scan of the surrounding area told him that these were accurately fired shots from a fully automatic machine gun. There were no more than seven bullet holes in the far wall. Someone shot his partner thirty eight times to make a statement. A closer look at the bullet wounds suggests that it was fairly close range. Not that he needed this forensic evidence to know who did this.
It was a message. A friendly little sticky note passed between former co-workers. The bullet holes themselves might as well have spelled out the message if you connected the dots. "We know." But even this seemed a tad extreme for the Agency. This was personal. This was an old friend trying to get under his skin. An attempt to trigger an emotional response. To bypass his logic centers of his brain. Run off half-cocked looking for revenge.
Agent Spider wasn't the same man he was when he was with the Agency. He had since graduated from the Society. No one is ever the same after the day they first wake up in the Society. And none of the graduates would ever fall for so obvious a challenge. Never fight on their terms. What was needed now was to retreat, cause them to get impatient. Let Gallows make the mistakes while he got a new partner.
In a way it was a relief. This one never would have had the balls to destroy the world.
Looking down at the bullet-riddled corpse at his feet Agent Spider counted thirty eight separate entry points. A quick scan of the surrounding area told him that these were accurately fired shots from a fully automatic machine gun. There were no more than seven bullet holes in the far wall. Someone shot his partner thirty eight times to make a statement. A closer look at the bullet wounds suggests that it was fairly close range. Not that he needed this forensic evidence to know who did this.
It was a message. A friendly little sticky note passed between former co-workers. The bullet holes themselves might as well have spelled out the message if you connected the dots. "We know." But even this seemed a tad extreme for the Agency. This was personal. This was an old friend trying to get under his skin. An attempt to trigger an emotional response. To bypass his logic centers of his brain. Run off half-cocked looking for revenge.
Agent Spider wasn't the same man he was when he was with the Agency. He had since graduated from the Society. No one is ever the same after the day they first wake up in the Society. And none of the graduates would ever fall for so obvious a challenge. Never fight on their terms. What was needed now was to retreat, cause them to get impatient. Let Gallows make the mistakes while he got a new partner.
In a way it was a relief. This one never would have had the balls to destroy the world.
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