Tower of Brahma 62.i Solo Inferno

To say it was dark, to say I was alone, would be to acknowledge the existence of those words. There was only my flesh, the energy that coursed through it, and the concepts in my grey matter. My skin was drifting apart atom by atom, cell by cell.

I lit up from the inside, glowing crimson withing my groin, shifting to orange among my abs, canary yellow from the diaphram, a burst of green from my sternum, throat tightening around bluish illumination, and purple popped from my forehead. Stoplight magnificence in eternal void.

Pulling a coin from my pocket, a beautiful woman carved into its side. Flipping it over, it mirrored my own third eye, a reflecktion of my insides shining within. It pulled free from my hand and slipped flawlessly onto the horn of light protruding from my skull.

Fifth Avenue decadence, dollars turning into fabric, less with each season, the money become abstract plastic. A new look, a pretty thing to wear, to pretend to be. Each cycle delivering the anti-dote or evolution to last year's debacle. Appearance is all.

Every shred of clothing shows how you feel about yourself. Emtpy in crisp starched shirts, not caring in cotton, draping yourself in sheer shimmer. You try and capture eyes, daring them to hold you higher, momentary fix for the vacant chest. You never learned to love. You are a void. You don't exist.

A pulse of golden energy rippled down the horn and swept through my body. The ring was gone. Absorbed. Passed through my body. I felt as if a rotten piece of my lungs were torn from my body. A sensitive band-aid ripped off absence. A tumor of black smoke evaporated before my eyes.

In my left palm I held another coin. I had it pressed against my crotch, the red beam from my erect cock embraced the metal's cold touch, slipping over it like a second skin, a receptacle to withdraw into. On the side upwards on the coin I saw an image of a demonic goat face stretching thin as it pulled down over my shaft.

She walks by, the bar freezes, and you're alone, the patrons all incidental nobodies as you take her in. The smell sifting from her hair as it brushes up against the exposed skin of her back, skin that dips down the curve of her spine, dropping into a dip above the crack of her dress.

You spin the room around, diving among the onlookers, wiping your eyes over her bust, riding the dividing line of the plunging neck, sharp chest bones highlighting the subtle sternum ribs rifts in her cleavage. You want to throw her down and love her.

Your eyes drift higher as you lower your brow. Nose twitch, smirk, inhaled breath, prowling on top of her, pinned in your grasp, smiles stifled on her lips, hair tussled as your grip slides up and across her flesh. Gripping, biting, rubbing you chin over stomach.

She leaves her body, electric jolt of pleasure pumping from her womb, a trigger clicked as shivers shot to her toes, tensed in an orgasmic clutch. She comes. You leave. Your use is fulfilled. Activated another to a higher calling. You're not allowed to connect with her. Any of her.

My cock feels like dead weight, a thing of wet clay, falling apart in my grip. I panic for a moment before realizing that it doesn't matter. Let it melt away. It only caused false ego, obsessive territorial marking instrument of my destruction. There is no salvation in the phallic. Only a load of empty enlightenment.

The semen seeped into my stomach, dripping into the cracks, gooping its way through intestines. Liquid life, plasma seed paste, a short lived spaceship out of the body universe into the egg, where one would strived to become a living entity in a larger reality. Only...there is no egg.

I am a shell, meat, a gear that grinds itself free of white grease. Mechanical masturbation drawing its strength from my guts, which are all becoming slippery and sliding free from me. There's no food inside, never been much of an eater, the sickly lining always misaligning my meals.

Never was I taught balance. I do it to excess, then diminish in guilt and depression from the overconsumption. If I feed my problem, it dies, but if I starve it, it will suffer. I will suffer. I should suffer. If I deny my needs I control my body, therefore myself. I exist because I can damage myself. Spite is my sustenance, bitterness my bread.

The snout that was my belly button, my rolls crumbling away, breasts drooping into pig ears, I was disolving. Whole slabs broke free and plopped into non-existence. A torso of a man, my arms flailing about, unsteady in my undoing. I grip my sternum, slipping digits inbetween ribs, dug my nub-like fingertips deep inside, pressing deep into my lungs.

And I tore myself wide open. An emerald elegance erupted from my chest cavity. A shaggy chorophil presence puffed out and blossomed. The air, or lack thereof, dried its leaves into cripsy brown chips, twinkling into the breeze of damnation in a billion flakes.

Soil that once fed a great tree, the form of its roots still inverted in its dirt mold. There is no purpose now, nothing to feed, to have bloom inside you. All that remains is dug up earth, a gaping wound, nature's broken heart. Packed down tight, perhaps growing the means to dissolve a corpse. A host to worms, maggots, bacteria. It dies in you.

So why bother? Give up the struggle. Life is dead. There remains nothing to fight for. Your purpose has been fulfilled. Propagation mechinization. Now go listen to sad tunes, have a drink of scotch, sit in your simple self-pity...and die. There is no point. That is all.

There's so much potential though. There's hope. I can make a change for the better, I have before, I can do it again. I can serve a new purpose, a higher goal, something to transcend the ego. I will fight for the Id of all known realities. And that truth will make all I do beyond condemnation. It is for the best.

Just so tired today. Work was brutal. The way the boss talked to me. Fuck that. I'm gonna quit. And that dumb ass in the other room, my supposed mate, is just so fucking obnoxious, I just need a drink. Or a nap. Maybe I'll get high and putz around. Can't deal with it today. Tomorrow, maybe.

The day never comes and nothing is done. A cry goes out, "Where has my youth gone?", and the silence of the future echoes back a hopeless answer. No sense is trying, look at how bad it all turned out for them, they didn't make it too far, and they're better than I am. Fuck it, I'm useless. How can I best stave off boredom until I die?

I'm sent into a coughing fit as my lung shrivel, forcing the ash of my person up my trachea, hacking out a ball of navy blue phlegm. All that I had left to say to everyone, barfed out before me. It was all a jumbled mess. An apology, a confession, a multitude of lies. Dissolving beneath my chin was all the love that I had not spoken. The truths that died with me.

That's all I had. Any connection to humanity is now expelled. We only are able to make some gutteral sounds, air whooshed up a rippled tubing mechanism with a valve atop it. A mass of flesh with muscle memory, triggered by abstract thought, categorized into feelings (or collectively, emotions), blown out as words.

Symbolic stencils over impossible constructs. I love you. I fear death. Life eternal. These things are nothing. They mean only what we loosely collectively what we imagine them to mean. No litmus test can calculate whether any brains are in sync, if communication is accurately taking place.

It is not. Memories smash against experience, behavior instinctually guides us through relatively unharmed, as robotic gestures of emotional interaction are jerkily enacted. What is holding it together? A hobbled together language, invented from dead cultures hodgepodged grunts and growls.

The remainder of flesh slips free and I glance down into a golden triangle, a lions roaring face trapped in its triangular prison. The three point begin to curve, and the whole thing dips a bit. Rounded edges reach outwards and then it pops! The roar is releashed and like a flashbulb crack, it is gone.

I may as well sit back and wait for the end. That's all I ever did upon reflection. Hardly did I ever try and succeed. Often, I did what was necessary, I got by and then I didn't need to do anything again til next time. Just fine by me. Life was too complicated to handle anyways. So let me burn.

Sure, I could string together words, draft you a sentence. Then what? Your eyes would scan it, your brain would process each shape into a word, the word would be referenced, an idea of the information would be drawn up, and you'd be presented with a concept to either accept or deny.

Does it matter? Did any of the above words move you? At all? Do you even understand what is being discussed? Am I so far into my own head that this is utter gibberish, that I have spent countless hours clicking out letters for nothing? I will destroy this book and all it contains. See? It is not worth it.

Printed out in paperback, or shoved electronically into inboxes, this work does not matter. It would be a waste of time, if you didn't get the enlightenment that it is all for naught! By doing something you have learned there is no point in accomplishing anything at all. It is all as dust. And soon, not even that.

My head thunked back onto the last patch of solid ground. Or the concept of ground anyways. I was now just a head, my throat long since dripped away. Down to serious business. How do we end this? The tip of the beam emanating out of my frontal lobe seemed to poke into the fabric of dark matter all around me.

When I looked closer, for that was all I was capable of doing, I could see a small drain circling, the energy whipping past the event horizon as my essence was sucked up the straw that protruded from my third eye. All that remained of me was sucked into the eternity of an alternate dimension.

But this would be the last one. The final reality to deconstruct and dissect, then shove down the drain out to coat the container that once held galaxies, solar systems, stars, planets, humanity, life. This was the absolute end. No matter would exist after this was done.

At least it better be. Because if I'm born again, forced to endure every meaningless meeting, concoct asinine conversations with a mindwiped mass of morons, face the pain and anguish that living with the idiotic animal that we call man, if I have to do that all over again? I will kill every single person, with my bear hands if need be. I will not spare a single child. Every aspect of life will be eradicated.

It sounds so good, the bitterness survivng my decapitated state, suggesting that it resides in my brain. The oodles of noodles in my skull that shoots lightning along currents, enabling me to hate with all my might. It's such an empowering rush as I wade into the muck of rage.

I feel the breath escape from blue lips as it whisps past my cheek. I see the blood pouring from where I stuck the blade. I hear the crack of bone as shards sever circulation. Repugnant soul sits on my tongue as a savor the aroma of death. I have ended the path for someone. Altered their destiny, fulfilled my own.

A destroyer. Detached from mankind and its weaknesses, its petty longing to feel and live. It is not aware of the absurd delight that it is in knowing that everything dies and nothing is worth doing. Whatever temporary achievement may come, a decay and destruction of self will inevitably follow.

I wear a crown because I dare to. None save me can shoulder this burden, you people can not understand what it means to have to judge all of your souls time and time again. It is not improving over time. The evolution of cellular self-awareness is minimal at best, and I suggest the entire project be shut down.

When I look at you, I don't see what others see. I don't buy the persona, and I don't even believe the false facade beneath that. You are a lie because you don't know the word truth, because that would be an idea from above that is felt. It can not be spoken.

You all pretend so well don't you? Playing games and not giving a second thought to all that is around you. Don't question, be kept doubting yourself, seeking approval, you'll never see me coming. It's all one big party, yay, let's have fun. Fun, until you all die. Horribly. Screaming.

I don't know how you smile. I wonder at your bravado. How can you "feel" anything, let alone happiness? It does not exist! Stop pretending it does! You HEAR ME GODDAMMIT, STOP BEING HAPPY! I scream as my jaw dislodges and drops away. A wet hiss pours out of my throat, my tongue wiggling in open air, disconcertingly long and exposed.

At least I am here. At the end. I survived longer than everyone and saw it through. None of you could have done it. Who would have had the fortitude to look at yourself and rip it to shreds? I speak in the abstract only to relate. But I can get specific. I can remove my crown, step down from my throne.

This is who I am. I am a writer. I am lazy. I feel superior, I know I'm inferior. I can not connect with people, I have an impulse to hate them, yet also to serve them. I am an anglo-saxon mutt. An American. A New Yorker, from Long Island. A boy, a guy, a man...male. A bastard poet with lying eyes and fierce prose. I live as a con man, fooling firstly myself, into believing I am a con man.

A program with too many layers. An interacting mindframe that's gone on the blink. I've hit a woman, after being hit. I've cheated on lovers who listened to my heart. I've acted the part of sad soul to escape an awkward confrontation. Ill prepared for emotional survival, I crafted a skill to manipulate and control. My quick wit, disguised behind a simpleton, was the dagger I drove into your backs.

I left my grandmother to rot on a couch, cancer carving the life out of her meat, a wet cloth canvass of skin draped upon a rack of hangers. I felt nothing as a lost soul, a woman trapped in a man's body, a hermaphraditic rebus succubus, killed himself on my birthday. I enjoyed driving my girlfriend away with the brutal honesty of teenage infidelity. I wanted her to feel pain and get the fucking point.

Suffer. Feel guilt. Suffer. This is who I am. Punish myself, burn my spirit in hellfire, the crown long ago melted and drawn into the spiral sucking it all away. My nose caved in on itself, my cheeks sunk and fell away, my eyes carried themselves out the back of my eye sockets and drifted along the river of brainmatter.

All up into the third eye, right into the sky, a pinprick sticking me to the wall. I'm done. My final sentence was a nod to ego and self, a wink and a nod to the id, and a fuck you to the superego.

"I am the greatest writer alive."