Excerpts of the Sleepless Cycle - Bass

My bass guitar was broken. I knew that but I couldn't quite define what exactly was wrong with it. The neck was too short. Like it was broken and then roughly been put back together with most of the middle part missing. So the neck was too short. I could see that, but I couldn't realize the problem in it. It seemed natural. It must be something else wrong with it.

My friends tried to persuade me that there's nothing wrong with the bass. It's just in my mind. I didn't lend it to the squat guys so that they can practice and they mistreated it. They didn't disrespect my offer and my willing sacrifice. At the back of my mind there was always the idea that I could not trust these people, but I always pushed that thought away. Because we are supposed to be the good guys. The ones who care. The empathy team.

But now my bass guitar is broken. It looks weird and unnatural and the neck is too short. And yet I still can't pinpoint that that's what's wrong with it. My friends insist it's just my imagination. Why do they do that? They're supposed to be my friends. They're supposed to tell me when I can't see what's in front of me.

The bass guitar is resting on a chair at the far end of the room. It's so hard to pick it up again now. The thick layer of dust would mean I'd have to clean it up first, and I can't go into all that trouble.

So maybe I'll say that it's broken.

* * * 

Daily Goals of Awakening

The more I live in what I consider to be the real world, the more I want to escape it. I sleep on porcelain. Then I dream. The curtain slides aside mildly squeaking, revealing a window. Like a random show on TV, my dream is performed in front of me. The characters, I know them. They're friends, colleagues and lovers. They're also villains and monsters and those who want to keep me here always.

I wake up. My head hurts, so I shave my chin. At least I look a bit better in the mirror. Like a little garden, maybe, it helps when one tends it. I trimm the bushy sideburns too. Looking at a rampant garden can be discomforting. Even intimidating. I can't lose my touch with reality, the mission is what matters. Only the mission. Otherwise I can't justify what is real. It's the only way, so it makes sense. A shaved chin is my anchor here. I see grown hair and I can tell time has passed.

I'm really trapped here. This bathroom is my shuttle, sitting on the toilet seat, traveling through the galactic corridors of the cosmic gallery on the back of a gargantuan carp. Or is it a catfish? I've never seen it. I only know it's there, and has always been, even before I came along. I took it from the previous tenant not knowing that in reality he also was a prisoner.

I hope one day I will complete my mission and be set free.

I will find God.

And when I do, my chin will be shaven and neat.

 

 * * *

Eki? 41

Eki anakineki I was watching the moon. Its warty silver face was grinning, probably mocking me. Hanging from the night sky like a Christmas decoration it should know better. What does it have to shine for itself? I will kick it down and put something else in its place.

Eki anakineki doesn't really mean anything. If l replace the moon with it, then it will be the thing that fucks my nights over and it won't be better, just different. There is some sort of allegory here, but I can't quite philosophize it to realization. I'll just say it has something to do with radishes and spinning tops. Both things I like, so everyone is happy. And that's it for today. I consider my duty to the world and radishes and spitting toads done.

Bye, I said flying toward the moonshine and into where meanings go for a smoke break. The thick cloud of the pink cigarettes engulfed me and got into my flesh vessel through an orifice that was previously my navel. It felt like a genie coming home and now I was a stranger about to get evicted, for genies have zero tolerance for squatters. Even if all my life I had been living here.

My body then became animated and colored in the color a defecating squeezing face would be painted if smeared with beets, but a mild gust of air dispersed my gaseous form, and all I could see was something unpurple getting smaller and smaller until it popped like a pimple. Then, the voice of God said something like: "Ouch" and I got some minor relief. 

 

 * * *

 

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Bicycle

 When the earth cracked open at the park, the little girl was swallowed inside the chasm. It wasn't my first time positioned in entropy's graceful side, and even though I knew the wrongness of what I was about to do, I didn't even flinch. I moved past her - emptying my heart of guilt and making room for a strangely familiar reprieve. Her accidental fall was but an opportunity for me. Her little bicycle, toppled at the edge of the chasm, was there for me to take.

Erik

Whenever Erik would visit Rust Alley, he'd see the donkey-headed man grinning at him. Erik would look at his big white teeth, even though he isn't supposed to, and the donkey-headed man would say a thing so weird, that the contemplation of its meaning would consume in unhealthy ways a good portion of Erik's waking life. Sometimes it would haunt his dreams too.

The donkey-headed man is three legged, blind and vast. His appendices stretch away, hiding in the shadowy corners of the alley. Heart-shaped sunglasses reflect the lamppost's light, looking back at Erik with two bright pupils, and like graffiti on a wall, his body merges with the derelict shacks behind him. He says:

“Why do I hear a telephone ringing? The wiring isn't installed properly. Am I blind? Am I not deaf? Ruined by your vindication, I smile to welcome fear, for a broken messenger I am. Would you fix me with your coins?”

Cosmic Pariah

The one doomed to drift

    the realms of Sh'Ect

Will always repeat

    the cycle of life

    in circles of death.

 

Queendom Come

A clock begun to tick.

And I charged into the battlefield.

Leaping feet, sword in hand and a silent battle cry filling my mind with blasting rage.

I saw her coming from the other side. Shinning white armor, determined stride, face painted death.

Overtaken by a terrible ecstasy, my eyes blazed with glorious hatred, my arms transformed into weapons of justice. The command had been given. The enemy was in sight. First blood was about to be drawn.

But then, she stopped. Right in the middle of the battlefield, she stopped. Idly staring at me, staring at her own demise.

Pagan

There was a time not long ago, when man believed.

When morals were held in hand alongside faith, and people were content to surrender to powers beyond their mortal capability, for a divine favor.

And life is always harsh.

The people of the village of Onslo knew it well.

Stuck like a limpet on a sea rock, the village rooted against a steep slope, close to the highest peaks of Mount Vunio.

On its feet, the thick cloud blanket kept the village away from an old, forgotten world beneath. The Cloud Gods were not remembered fondly, or hatefully there. In such a place their names were nothing more than a distant memory.

Someone else's tale.

But for the people of Onslo, the giants carried a relentless winter on their backs. And spring, was something that had to be earned, by blood and sweat and sacrifice.

So the people of Onslo believed.