THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 15 - This Garbage Life

04/16/04

Crying tears of misbegotten moments. Sad frames of time that will never be. Lost in a desert of isolation, I am unable to scream for the pain is too intense. It feels like I have been impaled and perhaps I have been. Impaled on my own fierce and unwavering judgment. Trapped in fear and charged with anger, my body tears itself to pieces, as I lie writhing below. The sickness has overcome me and I no longer know or care about anything except the end of the pain.

It's weird to be suffering both mental and physical pain at the same time. You become lost between shifts of neurological insanity, nerves screaming, emotional implosion. You begin to wonder which was here first, or if that even matters, or if anything matters, or if it will ever fucking end. And it won't. It drags on through mindless hours of fist clenching sanity, dream-soaked brain hemorrhages siphoning out your will to live.

Sleep is the only comfort. Shut off from the body the mind lingers in its own universe, content to play with the clay of unfounded moments. Things that will never be, days that will never come, people that you will never know. Swimming in the ocean of eternal self, where you are the shining center of the entire fabric of reality and you don't need to feel a shred of guilt for loving every second of it.

Tried and tested, judged and sentenced, you awake into this reeking shell, this stinking and rotting corpse. Sludge and slime have eroded your insides and not even those fleeting feelings of being that delicious godhead can make the searing fragments of time any more digestible. You hate the world, you hate every person, you hate the act of hating, you condemn, you judge, you want to drive your fist through the center of the waking world and shatter everything that seems to matter to all these fucking robot slaves.

Your pain wants to stomp on the happiness of a million screaming idiots, wants to crush the empty dreams of a shallow and morally vacuous society that wants only to drain you dry and move on to the next fresh source of smiling, stupid naiveté. Nothing is worth saving for it is all truly worthless and meaningless. A thousand chanting teenagers, psyche-branded by the Brand Names of a conglomerate of money hoarding sociopaths who live equally if not more empty lives, usher in the further decline of me and this hopeless, Garbage Life.