Psychosis and Nightmares

It is said that writing is an act of momentary psychosis. Nobody really says it but wouldn't you like to live in a world where it was true? If this throwaway line was taken as gospel truth and applied to the amount of text messages that get sent day after day after day, it's not much of a surprise that everyone is insane these days.

We've tricked ourselves into thinking we understood this world with the little amount we've been able to quantify into spreadsheets and datasets. Sure, why not. This is the first time in history we have access to gigahertz computing. This time we have it figured out for sure.

Go fuck yourself.

It's interesting. You and I grew up with these machines, or if we didn't, they infiltrated so easily into our lives over the course of years. For the first time in a while, it feels like I can finally see how horrid it is to have a phone on your body at all times. Everyone's neuroticism can be attributed to it.

Everyone has to love someone, or so it would seem. We've become too lonely online to notice everyone around us.

When you bother looking up to the heavens, you'll see the giant hole in the sky that we've ignored for so long. You might blame global warming, I might blame the phallic raging erections we thrust into the sky but the hole's still there all the same.

In a perfect nightmare scenario, the world is chrome and glass. Blood doesn't stain, it flows along mathematically smooth surfaces, endless rivulets. There's a light somewhere, everywhere. Your eyes can never focus on anything, everything is drowning in agonizing detail. Invisible flames overhead in skies. They burn upwards and upwards, spreading their fear across millions of lives. Windows crack for no reason, the roofs leak as if on command. Burnt corpses still shuffle onwards, their brittle skeletons fighting against the weight of charred meat. The weather is a single digit, has been a single digit for as long as I can remember. And I can't remember that far back. The demon in my throat tells me to give in, and he makes so very interesting points. I can't bear to tell him that I've been locked out of my mind for quite a while. It's painful to go out now. If I time it correctly I can manage to the end of the street, just by that lonesome restaurant. The patrons, if there are any, I find repulsing, so I throw up on the doorstep and carry the remains home.