You know inside; we’re regulated. We are. See in this evolutionary mass we call our brain, there’s these many little circuits. Synapsing about. No one knows why they’re there though, some of us just speculate, guess and whatnot using the logic of ones before us. But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t, really. See what matters is, that these circuits are driven. Supercharged but only to be then inhibited. They essentially make us who we are, and they’re regulated. Driven. It’s true. Some are already aware of this, yeah. They try and go about controlling what’s controlling them. Actual individuals, that is. Which is silly, don’t you think? You know it’s because in this struggle, humans always end up being miserable. Drives can fuck you up.
They love fucking you up.
But that’s just an arbitrary concept. Miserable as opposing to pleasurably pleasant. Ah. It’s not. It’s not opposing. It’s just another drive. They’re not fucking you up. They’re just tossing you over and in between. Depressing right? No, no. It’s just an attempt at homeostasis. Yeah, really. There’s a state of you these drives are competing for. Pardon, am I choosing my words wisely here? Competing. Ha. No, they desire something inanimate, my guess. You, expressed lifeless.
Rather, they’re working together.
Death. The perfect you. Stop romanticising. Death as new life? Eternal sleep? Are you perhaps thinking that? Then stop. Tainting ideals with the color of our pathetic notions. He looks asleep. How human. We love manufacturing realities, making everything observable to the senses. There’s nothing inside of you the negation of the other. Attaching self to the void. Ugh.
I feel troubled. Outside, in the moonlight of the slow night, objects create their own shadows— be disturbed continuously, wind only stirring. Shadows. They know nothing of their originator. Impalpable, in mute accord with their surroundings. It’s so late now. I have managed neither to go to sleep nor to remain properly awake. Ah, almost motif. The window to my room wide open, I hear nothing. I can’t. It’s only the false white of the moon, the false perception of a generated world hovering. I try and close my eyes again, and I’m reminded by a dream recurring.
I’m tired of dreaming. I am. It weighs on me. I wish to remain awake and dreamless, but I succumb. It’s only natural. Sigh. I dream constantly of my parents killing me. Murdering me, in the most brutal of ways. It’s once my mother, then in another father. They keep killing me. And I don’t know what to make of it. Paranoia is wearing me down, I’m torn. I mean you’d understand. Reality is generated inside. Really, everything. It’s a stimulus your waking life, then becomes interpretation, and interpretation envelopes you. Repeat. What separates dreams of reality? Nothing. It’s only the various degrees of imagined solid that does. I’m paranoid, perhaps they finished all my dream lives. And this one is my last. I can’t sleep. Is my waking life next?
I woke very early this morning in a sudden tangle of confusion and sat up in bed feeling suffocated by an incomprehensible sense of tedium. It was provoked neither by a dream nor by any reality, and I felt more troubled reaching that conclusion. It was a feeling of absolute utter tedium that had its roots in something unknowable. Physical nausea. Everything rang hollow. Then a sound came as to differentiate, familiar.
“[My name], get down for breakfast! Come on wake up sleepy head, I made pancakes.”
That was my mother. That was her voice. A terrible anxiety gripped and shook my smallest gesture. I’m afraid to go down. My whole body was a suppressed scream now. In my physical world, they’re the nicest folk ever. Great parents all around. To be envied, really. But in my dreams they’re monsters. Monsters completely. And it was in that struggle everything was equal, but something was toppled. I stopped dreaming. I can’t. I’m so afraid.
Am I going mad? Then what of it? Insanity but another form of sanity. This is my truth now, and I shall act accordingly. All to balance and a straight line to divide. In my bare feet in long, faltering strides that I vainly tried to make other than they were, I walked the short length of my room to reach the door. I went down, to the kitchen and sat there. Silently. In front of me a plate of pancakes, four of them, and the aroma of coffee seeping around chemically. Regular. A morning typical; so I thought. Then the room started morphing.
It did. It started doing so. Surrounding me the walls are now all grotesque illustrations of past crimes, the sound of blood gorging and retracting back to a place unknown to me. Vessels of different shapes and colors, veins contracting rhythmically. And in the periphery of my vision, I saw mother’s face change, in a fraction of a second, to one resembling her shape in my dreams.
And only when I observed, I witnessed what had become of her, she reverted back to normal. And it was all gone, in mere seconds, it was all gone, and I’m staring now at the face of a smiling parent asking me what’s wrong.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
What’s wrong, really? I don’t know. I don’t know, mom. I’m plagued by this struggle of indifference. This desire of net pleasure. Sum Grand. And the desire to destroy, and obliterate. Threats. Death. Serenity. Complete. Life. Silence. Death. Threats. Continuity. They all serve the same purpose, I think, after all. I don’t really know mom. I’ll obey what a controlling inherent the nature of myself and all is. I can’t help it.
Unsatisfactory. That’s what I kept thinking. My dear friend, let me tell you what happened. It goes something like this: I stood up from my eating place, and strangled mother. I did. She resisted at first, confused and twisted her face was. Contoured by agony, I guess. But in her last breaths, she turned to that monster. Again. And it had a rather peculiar expression. It was bizarre. I killed her. Then grabbed a rolling pin. I felt like abusing her rib cage. That I did. Ah. It was so quiet but not quite so. It was all.. thud. thud. The sound of flesh and the smell of early morning. Nonetheless, father was still upstairs. So I went up.
Father put up a better fight. I must say so. Nevertheless I managed to knock him unconscious. He didn’t turn to anything, unlike mother. He was still waking-life him. So I broke his arms. And legs. Repeatedly and in more than one location. Nothing happened. So I raped him. I did. I don’t remember why. I felt like doing so back then. He was a mess. A heap of broken bones and an ugly embodiment of sodomy. I cracked his head open! And that was it. That was it.
Unsatisfactory. That’s what I kept thinking.
My mind betrayed me. I was tricked. This whole made-up world did. Or it didn’t. Perhaps it was trying to help me. Shelter me from utter nothing. As there’s no broken perception of reality, but rather different worlds with alternating fail-safe mechanics. There’s no broken anything, but different values and stimuli. Perhaps what I did was ordinary, but my drives have yet to be accustomed to this change in scenery. In universe within. It’s all an attempt for recovery.
It’s all silly. It’s all very silly when you think about it. Contradicting conflict corrosion in area of conformity whole, falling and rising again, constructing non-solid imagining things imaginary. It goes about.
So I refuse. My matter— rather nature of refusal will be reported in the news. Hopefully.