02/28/04
I woke up 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'm not sure. I can't remember my dreams, not one damn bit.
Outside, a dark skinned man in a rumpled, yet flashy, dark blue 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 their polite society. All with one look.
The man made his way towards the line for the fast food joint. He waited impatiently while he radiated 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, we immediately made eye contact. He stalked his way towards me, slicing through the harmonious vibes of weary vacationers, 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 chemically charged meat sandwich, slivers of potatomeat popsicles, and an 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 to 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." I 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 this 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 previously friendly 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, November 29, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 6 - A Million Burning Stars (edit)
02/28/04
I find myself drifting off to sleep randomly through the day. Recently I awoke from a mid-day 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 relatability 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, tip-toed 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 and into total 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 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 relatability 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, tip-toed 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 and into total 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, November 15, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 5 - Lost Among the Lambs (edit)
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 past. 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 people. 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 past. 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 people. 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.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Tower of Brahma. Chapter 64. One Last Thing.
I fell to my knees, my body slack and drained, arms folded before me, sweat dripping from the tips of the long hair that draped across my face. I had done it, had gripped the World Serpent by the tail and ripped it free from my chest, its fangs sliding free from the apple in my chest. The venom spouted forth from the bite marks and gushed out before me. I was free.
I walked hand in hand with her as we took in the late Fall evening. I knew something was wrong inside, but I could not force my body to expel the bitterness and anxiety, couldn't imagine a life that didn't make me feel alone and outcast from any other human beings. For so long I wanted connection, communion with something other than myself. Glancing at her in my peripheral I couldn't acknowledge the power between us.
Years later, I'm carrying our child down the stairs as she toils away at her art desk. We exchange quick smiles as I pass her by, our daughter smiling and bouncing in my arms as we pass her on our way to the kitchen. I whip together a small lunch and bring it in to her, which, she reluctantly turns from her work to enjoy with us. We're a family, and bound together beyond what words can explain.
Every now and then I pause before our library and run my fingers along the spines of the novels and textbooks until I come upon a title: Tower of Brahma. Of all the books we own, this is the one that matters, for it is mine. I spent seven years of my life in a hell of my own making, constantly exposing myself emotionally, then encrypting it in poetic verse and obscure allegory. It's a completely self-indulgent text, filled with short stories, poems, essays, all scratching away at the black charred surface of my heart.
I laugh to myself there, letting my head drop a moment, eyes closed and taking in what had happened so long ago. A conspiracy of self consumed me, a labyrinthine plot through the inner workings of my mind, all in a desperate attempt to be happy, to gain enlightenment and become fulfilled. But when everything becomes an escape, you lose track of where you're going, frantic to flee whatever it is that's trying to kill you.
In my case it was me. Or the poisoned me that I created based on people's perceptions and their selfish demeanors. I tried so hard to change who I was, all while desperately clinging to the past as I had no idea who I was without all that anger and sadness. I was unwanted and unloved, mainly because I wanted to be. I teased myself with the idea of suicide endlessly, hoping that that at least was one way to be truly free.
I hoped that plotting out this book, this collection of a couple hundred pages and printed text, chock full of my ideas, my pain, my desires, I had hoped that this was what it took to reprogram me so that I could live here in the world and be one of you. But it didn't work like that. I wrote it. I read it. I even tried to sell copies it for awhile. Some people had read it, I even got a handful of positive comments, with no one taking the time to throw a negative one my way.
Who'd I write this for anyways? When I re-read it, I didn't even know who that person was anymore. The vague details seemed familiar, and there was something about the core of the narrative that I connected to, but I couldn't relate at this point, less and less so as the years went on. I was a father and husband, I taught at the Community College, helping young writers find their voices and molding them into words. I walked through my life with a smile and a kind word for those around me.
I wasn't alone. I never was except for when I truly wanted to be. I just felt I deserved to be. Years of struggle forced me up out of myself, made me wake up and take stock of this life I was living. Thankfully some subconscious program forced me along, building up the staircase I would need to ascend in order to take charge of my life. So, when I wrote that last chapter, when I let go of all the misery I thought was so essential to my being, only then was I able to see things around me clearly.
I was working for the Daily News, breaking the latest disasters, a Blackberry on my hip and a blazer on my back. I had a girlfriend that would never give up on me, who wanted more than anything to be my wife, to be a parent with me. There were a small collection of friends who saw in me a magnetic and charming person whose company they enjoyed. There was no shortage of personal and financial wounds that needed to be repaired, but the stage was set, and I was in charge.
I heard Millie shriek with joy from the other room as Jazmine tickled her making googling noises. My child and wife, my family. I didn't bother taking the book off the shelf, I never do anymore, hardly even think about it really. The second book is nearly complete and I really don't know if I'll do anything except print up a copy to slide right next to this one here. Jazz would want me to, she thinks it's important. I think she just wants me to feel good about it, which is why I love her.
No one else needs to read this. I don't even need to read this. Yet, it had to be written, if for no other reason to save this writer's soul. I imagine a young punk picking up a used copy at the bookstore on St. Mark's in the East Village. He'll love it, hate it, slip it into a back jean pocket, leave it at a friend's house after they smoke and run out to a show taking swigs from their flask. Some idea or sense of the words will have made some impact on him, altering how he experiences that night.
Maybe he writes his own novel, or starts a band, swiping a chapter title for a song that will never be played beyond dive bars and dingy basements. I like to imagine that in years to come he'll have read my adventures in New York City during the first decade in a new century and wish that he had lived back then, when things were more visceral and real, never really knowing that fiction is all based on the same mundane reality we all experience, only altered and ignited by our innate desire to be more than we are.
And the day will come when that young man realizes that there's nothing more rewarding than to have your moment, record it, process it, and then to let it go. From there you are truly free to do whatever it is that you wish. And right now, all I want is to go look on my family's smiling faces as I enter the room. That is what's real. That's the happy ending that no book will ever give you.
Stop typing. Stop reading.
This is the end.
I walked hand in hand with her as we took in the late Fall evening. I knew something was wrong inside, but I could not force my body to expel the bitterness and anxiety, couldn't imagine a life that didn't make me feel alone and outcast from any other human beings. For so long I wanted connection, communion with something other than myself. Glancing at her in my peripheral I couldn't acknowledge the power between us.
Years later, I'm carrying our child down the stairs as she toils away at her art desk. We exchange quick smiles as I pass her by, our daughter smiling and bouncing in my arms as we pass her on our way to the kitchen. I whip together a small lunch and bring it in to her, which, she reluctantly turns from her work to enjoy with us. We're a family, and bound together beyond what words can explain.
Every now and then I pause before our library and run my fingers along the spines of the novels and textbooks until I come upon a title: Tower of Brahma. Of all the books we own, this is the one that matters, for it is mine. I spent seven years of my life in a hell of my own making, constantly exposing myself emotionally, then encrypting it in poetic verse and obscure allegory. It's a completely self-indulgent text, filled with short stories, poems, essays, all scratching away at the black charred surface of my heart.
I laugh to myself there, letting my head drop a moment, eyes closed and taking in what had happened so long ago. A conspiracy of self consumed me, a labyrinthine plot through the inner workings of my mind, all in a desperate attempt to be happy, to gain enlightenment and become fulfilled. But when everything becomes an escape, you lose track of where you're going, frantic to flee whatever it is that's trying to kill you.
In my case it was me. Or the poisoned me that I created based on people's perceptions and their selfish demeanors. I tried so hard to change who I was, all while desperately clinging to the past as I had no idea who I was without all that anger and sadness. I was unwanted and unloved, mainly because I wanted to be. I teased myself with the idea of suicide endlessly, hoping that that at least was one way to be truly free.
I hoped that plotting out this book, this collection of a couple hundred pages and printed text, chock full of my ideas, my pain, my desires, I had hoped that this was what it took to reprogram me so that I could live here in the world and be one of you. But it didn't work like that. I wrote it. I read it. I even tried to sell copies it for awhile. Some people had read it, I even got a handful of positive comments, with no one taking the time to throw a negative one my way.
Who'd I write this for anyways? When I re-read it, I didn't even know who that person was anymore. The vague details seemed familiar, and there was something about the core of the narrative that I connected to, but I couldn't relate at this point, less and less so as the years went on. I was a father and husband, I taught at the Community College, helping young writers find their voices and molding them into words. I walked through my life with a smile and a kind word for those around me.
I wasn't alone. I never was except for when I truly wanted to be. I just felt I deserved to be. Years of struggle forced me up out of myself, made me wake up and take stock of this life I was living. Thankfully some subconscious program forced me along, building up the staircase I would need to ascend in order to take charge of my life. So, when I wrote that last chapter, when I let go of all the misery I thought was so essential to my being, only then was I able to see things around me clearly.
I was working for the Daily News, breaking the latest disasters, a Blackberry on my hip and a blazer on my back. I had a girlfriend that would never give up on me, who wanted more than anything to be my wife, to be a parent with me. There were a small collection of friends who saw in me a magnetic and charming person whose company they enjoyed. There was no shortage of personal and financial wounds that needed to be repaired, but the stage was set, and I was in charge.
I heard Millie shriek with joy from the other room as Jazmine tickled her making googling noises. My child and wife, my family. I didn't bother taking the book off the shelf, I never do anymore, hardly even think about it really. The second book is nearly complete and I really don't know if I'll do anything except print up a copy to slide right next to this one here. Jazz would want me to, she thinks it's important. I think she just wants me to feel good about it, which is why I love her.
No one else needs to read this. I don't even need to read this. Yet, it had to be written, if for no other reason to save this writer's soul. I imagine a young punk picking up a used copy at the bookstore on St. Mark's in the East Village. He'll love it, hate it, slip it into a back jean pocket, leave it at a friend's house after they smoke and run out to a show taking swigs from their flask. Some idea or sense of the words will have made some impact on him, altering how he experiences that night.
Maybe he writes his own novel, or starts a band, swiping a chapter title for a song that will never be played beyond dive bars and dingy basements. I like to imagine that in years to come he'll have read my adventures in New York City during the first decade in a new century and wish that he had lived back then, when things were more visceral and real, never really knowing that fiction is all based on the same mundane reality we all experience, only altered and ignited by our innate desire to be more than we are.
And the day will come when that young man realizes that there's nothing more rewarding than to have your moment, record it, process it, and then to let it go. From there you are truly free to do whatever it is that you wish. And right now, all I want is to go look on my family's smiling faces as I enter the room. That is what's real. That's the happy ending that no book will ever give you.
Stop typing. Stop reading.
This is the end.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 4 - The End (edit)
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's being altered, but it seems these dreams are just moments of un-existence. 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's being altered, but it seems these dreams are just moments of un-existence. 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, October 25, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, October 18, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 2 - Control (edit)
02/09/04
I found myself in the bathroom of a truck stop, lingering in front of the mirror as I washed my hands. I glanced up to meet my own eyes as they looked me over. Who was this character that had been substituted in place of 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 reality with a shrug of my shoulders, and I watched my looking-glass doppelganger ape the movement 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? The detailed schematic of the lie that I called my Life had 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 what's real 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 sort of 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 my body 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.
I found myself in the bathroom of a truck stop, lingering in front of the mirror as I washed my hands. I glanced up to meet my own eyes as they looked me over. Who was this character that had been substituted in place of 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 reality with a shrug of my shoulders, and I watched my looking-glass doppelganger ape the movement 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? The detailed schematic of the lie that I called my Life had 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 what's real 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 sort of 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 my body 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, October 11, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 1 - Escape (edit)
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, except now it all felt hollow, empty, devoid of the sentimentality and nostalgic power I'd imbued them with.
I immediately began writing down my thoughts in my journal. Hopefully I could find 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, 36" TV, stocked bookshelf, endless DVDs, and my computer, all sitting in the same place I had 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 router I could see that they had 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 dull 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, and epic in scale and scope. 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 had hesitated a minute or two in front of the fridge but decided that the food within 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 my entire life.
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've easily believed that this truly was my life. That this was my car that I was driving, down the street I lived 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, except now it all felt hollow, empty, devoid of the sentimentality and nostalgic power I'd imbued them with.
I immediately began writing down my thoughts in my journal. Hopefully I could find 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, 36" TV, stocked bookshelf, endless DVDs, and my computer, all sitting in the same place I had 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 router I could see that they had 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 dull 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, and epic in scale and scope. 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 had hesitated a minute or two in front of the fridge but decided that the food within 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 my entire life.
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've easily believed that this truly was my life. That this was my car that I was driving, down the street I lived 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.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA - Prelude (edit)
10/16/03
Agent Spider looked down at the bullet-riddled corpse at his feet. He 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 with no more than seven bullet holes in the far wall. Someone shot his partner point blank to make a statement. 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 the logic center of his brain. Send him running off half-cocked looking for revenge.
Agent Spider wasn't the same man he once was, back when they knew him. He had escaped from the Society. It was unheard of for someone to escape, but escape he did. 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 didn't have the balls to destroy the world.
Agent Spider looked down at the bullet-riddled corpse at his feet. He 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 with no more than seven bullet holes in the far wall. Someone shot his partner point blank to make a statement. 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 the logic center of his brain. Send him running off half-cocked looking for revenge.
Agent Spider wasn't the same man he once was, back when they knew him. He had escaped from the Society. It was unheard of for someone to escape, but escape he did. 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 didn't have the balls to destroy the world.
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