Getting no where

“No. No no no.

Stop feeling this way.

You, you me, we, I...

ah,

Stop beating yourself up for who you are. There isn’t anything wrong with talking the way you were. If people have a problem with you, then people have a problem. There are no wrong answers in social etiquette.

Yes there are wrong answers! One can’t simply go around chopping peoples second toes off! What if “being me” is stopping others from being themselves?

Oh, yes. Yes I see your dilemma. It's hard not to miss. Hard to get only the second toe. But I mean, I wouldn’t feel bad if they had failed to warn you of their discomfort in that area.

Ooooooh, no no no. Anguish, anguish, anguish. I truly must be one of those horrid people so unaware of their annoyance. Unaware of their self absorbent qualities. I mean look at me. Just look at me.

      
”

He thought, as he drooled and repeatedly banged blood from his forehead and knuckles against a rough, rendered wall.

The Nosy Neighbours Dream

This is an Australian sun with health in balance.
Skin cancer signing fair trade agreements with Vitamin D.

This is a sun that has white washed all worries.
All minds in the present,
Never mind where that be.

And everyone's conversations walk by everyone's conversations.

"The thing about America is..."

"If it's a camel it has to be consensual..."

A mess of aimless sound bites towed along by the Doppler effect.

Yes, the street is the overflowing wet dream of a failing arts student.
Sitting, sipping chai.
Bi, watching boys and girls go by.

But in public, so he can only masturbate with his vocabulary.

When I grow up I want to get married and have two kids and a steady income and shoot myself in the head with a sawed-off

Becoming an adult is...

testing childhood values by doing their opposite.
Drugs, debauchery, materialism.
It's learning that I was right,
so living the rest of life a hypocrite.

Adulthood isn't emancipation.
It isn't "finding your true self"
It's awareness that self awareness brings a dark, scary place
Its comfort lies only in lies.

Becoming Einstein.

“oh...”

“OH! Because the speed of light is a universal constant!”

Against the tattered walls of his turn of the century (2000) slum, the junky sat. He was flopped against a period of generic, safety regulated, architecture. At least the mould from the leaking ceiling gave character.

His character was hidden beneath 3mm of grit. With a mind that vivid, he’d forget to shower. With a mind that vivid, he couldn’t be subjugated to employment.

He was just another junky tripping on consciousnesses downloaded from Pirate Bay.
Illegal, but his brain used a proxy server.
Illegal, but how could the police, even with their unconstitutional authority, keep up with a man who’s fused Einstein? 
Who’s fused Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? 
Who’s tripped on the self righteous Julian Assange? 
He’d fused Orwell.

Of course, he’d convinced himself, his habit wasn’t too bad.

Not as bad, at least, as some of his friends. He hadn’t tripped on Cobain.

As fun as this biology-binary bestiality is, he thought.

As fun as it is to switch subjectivities from Van Goh to Warhol. From a Hawkins/Dawkins double drop, to a Tutu/Gandhi.

As fun as it is to know quantum mechanics, the best was always himself.

While his mind was constantly demolished and rebuilt,

made mathematical then adolescent.

While it grows constantly with the residue of each simulation.

While he’d changed beyond a memory of his sober self.

He had always watched it happen.

The I.

The part of his mind that sat passive and observed.

The part of his mind that was he. He could never escape.

And so, addiction.