experiment

As It Moves Itself

At last, at last, at last.

I can hear Silence.

It buzzes inside my cranium

and the lack of noise is nothing short of terrifying.

It slowly shifts through me,

Robbing me of my remaining senses.

Sight. gone. Ocular windows open but

dead. Touch. Gone. The tingling of deprivation is gone too.

Taste. Gone. The roof of my mouth is empty of taste.

Smell. Gone. And my head fills with a cold

freshness. Like a wave of spiralling

hands, the deadness moves through me,

mixing into my body and killing it slowly

and I decay like a weed free from soil,

And my soul is released into an

endless black void.

Where it, I, lies softly and silently,

Humming faintly with heat and inaudible sound,

But it, I, will not be alone for long.

For I shall take others with me with my mind’s spiralling

wave-hands that move like worms through the smallest cracks in others

and up, up, into their minds where they begin to unhinge as it,

I, covers the internal oval windows in their brains,

So they, too, feel the

buzzing of

complete Silence.

 

And when their soul becomes an it,

them, my own will grasp it softly, hands touching

without sense on either of their, our, souls.

Come with me.

And be free.

At last, you can know what it is to live forever,

At last, you can feel the deistic bliss only reserved for Gods,

At last, you can be sure that there is land

beyond this senseless and tingling wall of Death.

I: Human Carriage

Always several unreal things cross my mind when I encounter empty things.
Be them… muraled bottles… or cans…
Theatres… cars… terminals…
Train carriages? Train cars?
We tend to call this type of thing a carriage. Though it is, technically, a car. Not a carriage.
But everyone calls them carriages.
Just makes it… easier. Carriages carry. Except
they don’t when they’re empty.
Do they?

That is what I mean. Unreal things – like the unrealness of the whispers of people who have sat there and who will – cross my mind when I encounter empty things. I have great desires to fill the space.
But that’s another thing, I can fill this space. In this carriage, I can fill it.
Make the collateral whispers into screams as physicalities take form.
And I can serve them their lukewarm waters, point them in the direction of the on-board shoddy bathroom.
While they wait and stew in the Human Carriage.
Because! -you see, you see!
I am the Human Carriage Maestro.
They bow by my hand, holding the unprestigious door open for them.
I guide them with a flourish of gloved fingers to their direction of seat.
And I tell them to have a pleasant trip.

I get the most gruesome duty of all though, too, which is picking up after the people. And that’s less mundane than it sounds, especially once you consider the emptiness. Because the carriage can be full but the emptiness can be more vivid than ever at that point too.
The contrast, see. So difficult to see through. It’s like a fog.
But.
But! Come and view my Human Carriage. Look at the colours if you’d like, the red
handles on the doors. I re-painted them with my own hand the other week.
And the paint’s already flaking.
Dreadful shame.
Did I just waste
my
time?

Well. That answer looks to be a stout but firm yes from the audience. The crowd. The gameshow contestant. None of which exist anyway. But. Either way.
Leave the handles here, the red will flake off on my gloves if I should touch them anymore.
God.
I’ll touch them up when I stop being depressed about how I wasted my time.
But with better paint.
Certainly, definitely, better paint.
I sigh as I walk.

Rounding the edge of the platform – or rather, going through the rusted chainlink fence to the corner and leaping off with a little shriek of enjoyment on my part – I begin to notice the breathy huddle I have come to be familiar with.
They’re mostly the same this season. About five to eight potential passengers, always huddled together like sardines. Or is it penguins that huddle?
Both perhaps. One in the ocean. The other, terra firma.
Before I make my prescence known – they’re slightly raised above where I stand, they’re on the first, second, third and fourth steps up to the platform real, whilst I am beside it near all the nettles and mulberries and goarses – I have a quick look at them all.
Mother and child, that’s two of the six I have this eve.
Then we have two men, wearing similar shirts.
But they’re standing apart from each other. Either they are strangers – probably – or they are…
Enemies?
Possibly.
Both in sort of pinkish-red plaid. I’m not sure I like it.
Who are the others, a young man – not in plaid – with sandy hair. And a girl.
Who seems to have a suspicious moustache-like thing. Dark hair.
She looks very odd. I cannot take my eyes off her lip. Her upper lip.
Very strange.
But nevertheless! These people are my people for now. All mine.
And soon they’ll be my carriage’s people.
And I’ll be their Maestro.
I do love being the Maestro.
Despite the cleaning up after them.

I know already these people have been briefed for the journey. Not too long, at least, they won’t know it is. For me, the journey seems to lengthen each time.
Or sometimes it shortens… maybe sometimes I get used to it and sometimes I am tired.
But for them it lasts no longer than half an hour to forty-five minutes. Usually.
Well. It depends how quickly they all go. Or how quickly I get around them all.
After all.
I am their Maestro.

I make myself known to the stupendous six, adding myself into their midst to bring the total headcount to seven.
If the child can be counted as a head. It’s very small.
Six months? Less? More? I’ve never been good at estimating age with babies.
Or did I call it a child?
It matters not.
I sidle up to them either way, pulling at my wrists. Where my gloves come down.
The white palms so pure.
But slightly stained with palm-sweat of the months.
Very much in my size.

I draw their gazes with a slight –ahem and by throwing my arms wide.
Six pairs of eyes on me.
I am their Maestro.
-Good evening.
-I am your Maestro for the next few hours.
I offer them a bow, very sleek and elegant. As I return their transfixed gazes slowly, I see how they all possess the same watery-looking sleep in the corners of their eyes. All breathing slowly, all calm, all with hair slightly out of place.
I smile, -Welcome to the Human Carriage. We are set to board. So. Do follow me, say I, before turning with yet more intense flourishes. I hop-skip-jump up the stairs, landing on my toes, all too happy to lead yet another group into my carriages.
It’ll be nice to take the journey again, I always think that.
Even if it does become lonely after a little while.
After about half an hour to forty-five minutes.

 

II: Human Carriage

 

I’m Allowed To Be

IF
And I repeat, IF
I’ve been to the depths, I can
judge for myself the highs
and the lowest
darkest
hidden realities and turnaround cul-de-sacs of endless light for myself.
I am not a blind bat in the darkness, I have two eyes that work less-than-perfectly,
And
even if I’m not the most
well
if I’ll look behind and see someone –
And I saw them once before –
recognition of them is minimal by my eye. So
I’ll probably overlook some more vital infor
mation, maybe the importance. Of it all.
But-

Either way.
I am not a blind bat in the darkness, I have two eyes that work less-than-perfectly,
And
even if I’m not the most
watchful – perhaps? – I can still
notice enough to make up my mind.
I can still see enough down here in the depth to cover myself completely.
I will learn all even if I want to know none of it.
I will watch and listen and try to smile despite the writhing I feel inside myself.

Imagine a projector screen with
me in front of it
ebbing black pixels. Ebbing. Pushing, throbbing, pulsating. Any of the words that might de
scribe the action of the screen behind me – and my shadow,
Not obstructing anything,
Yet, but
then from the corners
fuchsia spikes. Because I know
genuinely
that pain and pleasure are one and the same.
Despite the opposite realities of each one.
Fuchsia spikes closing in
and I merely stand
and watch
and listen
and learn.
While the screen attacks me from behind and I close my eyes as the screen shines
pink into them, all into them, behind them and through them.
But they don’t kill me.

My shadow, down here, blocks them. My back is defended. And, if I
turn to face the screen,
My front will be defended also.

Do you see yet?
I don’t
I don’t
I don’t

need

anything. Not your eyes, not your skin not your
words in my ears, not your arteries, not
your praises, not anything. I just need myself.
To be,
To learn,
To grow.

I am deeper than you think. Every silence is wrought with
pain and all I want is someone to shine a torch in
to the dark and look after me.
But I am turning my back on that. Rely on no one, no one
will shine as well as I do.
I know where I hurt.
I know where to put the bandages.
I know where the edges are.
How they fall.
How they blunt every issue I have.
And how,
With a single moment,
I can ignore them all and heal myself.
I am deeper

so much deeper

than you think.

And wiser, I am wiser than you think. Find my number and remove all the numbers and replace them with letters, I will
Tell you the colours of them,
One
by
one. Because
I know more. I know so much more. I know myself and
I know everyone else. There is a reason for what I’ve
been called. And what people see me as,
And that I can be taken,
So easily,
As a fool. Because I am a fool.

Despite my wisdom.

I am a
fool. And even
if I think I am
strong, even
if
I think I can
lift something
either
Physical
or
Mental
I am most times wrong.

So.

IF. You think I’m happy,
I’m most not.
IF. You think I’m easy,
I’m most not.

BUT. I am deeper than
you might care to think about.
BUT. I am wiser than
you might care to think about.

That’s the issue.
Read me.
Ignore me.
Face me.
Block me.
Stab me.
Say things you know will hurt me.
I am more than that if I can turn my back,
Shine my own light onto the places that hurt,
Because I know that even if…
Even IF
I’m sad, I’m allowed to be.
I’m happy, I’m allowed to be.
I’m furious, I’m allowed to be.
I’m ill, I’m allowed to be.
I’m scarring, I’m allowed to be.
I’m different, I’m allowed to be.
I’m naked, I’m allowed to be.
I’m cast, I’m allowed to be.
I’m…

I’m allowed to be.

Always.

Always allowed to be.

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

I am a worthwhile human being.

No you’re not. You ignore your own problems and other people’s. What you think you do to help people is no more than a meaningless and empty statement. There is always something else on your mind than what you should be doing, or what you are doing. You cannot set yourself on anything. Any ideal is never good enough. More is always yearned for. You berate people and you don’t realise it. You’re not worthwhile.

• People want to help me if I’m in trouble.

No they don’t. The people you think care about you don’t care nearly as much as you think they do. Your problems are yours and yours alone. Sure, you can talk about it all you want. But, in the end, no one will come to your aid if you tell anyone you’re going to end yourself. They might offer a kind word or a plea, but that’s what people do. They want to feel good about themselves, they don’t want to help. People stroke their egos trying to help people, giving them false hope and advice where it is not wanted and won’t help. And anyone who’s genuine will have given up long ago by now, because they realise the same things. No one will really help you.

• I have friends who love me.

No you don’t. Friends vanish at a moment’s notice. A best friend can turn their back on you for someone else. And if you turn your back, you’ll get stabbed in it instantly. You can feel more for someone than they feel for you, and that’s always the case. You could run a mile for someone and they’d move an inch for you. But it goes both ways – someone would run a mile for you and you’d barely move for them. You have no friends.

• Tomorrow will be a better day.

No it won’t be. Tomorrow will be worse. The pain you’ve felt today will be doubled by tomorrow. You can fool yourself into thinking you’re having a nice time – you can go out to a restaurant, you can play an online game, you can write, draw, compose or produce, but it’s all in vain. Tomorrow is just as bad as today, if not worse. What you tell yourself is only a layer, a thin layer that you don’t want to think past. You don’t want to ruin your own day. But as painful as today is, tomorrow will bring something worse. It won’t be a better day.

• I’ve learned from my mistake.

No you haven’t. You will continue to make that mistake over and over again, subjecting yourself to the definition of insanity, when in reality you should have learned to avoid this mistake before you made it. You don’t think enough, you assume too much and you trust too much. Mistakes are constant, as long as life exists on this earth. And you never learn from them. You just keep doing what hurt you before. You never learn.

• I am attractive.

No you’re not. In the fleeting moments you might have where your ego expands, and you catch yourself in the mirror, you apparently fail to notice your chewed lip, your uneven eyebrows, your tired eyes, your fat neck, your terrible hair, your awful posture, your depreciating eyelashes and your exposed wounds. You believe your clothes fit and work, though, from behind, you look a complete wreck. Your shoes are scuffed and broken, and your makeup is lopsided. You think you will turn heads with your beauty, maybe meet a stranger who will change your life. But you won’t. It’s a stupid wish. You are not attractive.

• People listen to me.

No they don’t. You are invisible and ignored. You can write a speech full of promises in flowery language but no one will listen. You can take pictures you’ve spent hours preparing for. But no one will look at them. You are unappreciated, and you deserve no appreciation. No one listens to you.

• I am talented.

No you’re not. Any talent or skill you have is vastly inflated by your own deluded mind. You can design websites over months only to have it ignored. No one cares about your talent. No one wants to waste their life praising you for doing something anyone could do. Talent does not exist. Whether art-, music-, writing-, business-, politics-, food- or science-related, it doesn’t matter. People have seen everything before and they expect nothing from you. You are not talented.

• The things I do make a difference.

No, they do not. You can donate a vast amount of money to a charity but that won’t matter. Any needy man, child or animal will get less than 0.01% of what you donated put forward to help them. Your existence does not improve anyone’s life, nor does it matter. You will die and be forgotten, and no one will mourn you. The world will keep spinning without your input. You make no difference.

I am a good person.

No you’re not. You are selfish, dreadfully so. You are greed-oriented. You are an addict. Your help means nothing. Your help is meek at best. You smile at everyone though detest them inside. Nobody knows what you look like when you truly care. Any tears you cry for someone else are tears of selfishness, you want to prove to yourself you care about them, so you cry with them. This makes you feel good for feeling emotion. You are selfish and greed-driven, intent on making yourself content. You are not a good person.

How do you feel, you fucking liar?