While I sit about and flip through my memories, sometimes it seems I’m searching for when I get stoned. When I am within the center of the crowd and they pelt me until I plead all I did and thought was wrong.
How desperately I would like to furnish my sins forward and find some upstanding characters to say there wasn’t anything necessarily sinful, but since you say otherwise here are your bruises and now you can patch yourself and move forward. Messengers of the god I’m desperately confused by. To beg for my own creation myth, a new one, a fresh lens, a throne of gods to lead me past the harsh elements of psyche and tundra. I almost want an exorcism, one so advanced that my brain is switched out. Install the chip everyone else has, surrender in whole, is this a backdoor by design? Clearly mine has been malfunctioning; my model wasn’t updated, or it’s outdated, or it’s inundated with nonsense. Or so I would like to believe… but the nonsense was programmed from the start. It’s the same.
Constantly stoned, the bruises turn all jaundiced. Forgotten reasons crust over. Why am I seeking where none is found? Why do I throw away all the .joy. I could be bothered of, and demean myself endlessly for the resurrection, the parade and where for once I can smile with the crowd? What crowd? My room is empty regardless.
The stern brow I crave comes from myself. The above visions are from the dead child. I will stand proudly and maintain stature through decapitation; they’ll have to render the guillotine horizontal as I won’t go on my knees. Try with all your might, spiteful humans! Spiteful gods! Spiteful aliens! Try me!