THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 3 - Fictional, Untruths, Lies (edit)

02/16/04

I've been sleeping in my car at rest stops, cocooned in fetal position for the entire night. I began driving north and now I'm no longer sure of my location or direction. I've been eating at different spots along the road, spending my days reading and people watching.

Rest stops are 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 mundane and 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 boundless future potential, 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. 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 un-places, 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. My face surfacing into the white light of everything where I was fed pure energy and peace.

A malevolent tumor of cancerous imagination cells built up a power of personality that was so strong because of its disuse that once a connection with 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 dashed 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.