Wonderland

Black-light shadow puppets paint the walls.

The clock doesn’t tick, its digital after all.
It’s silent as the womb, and maybe just as safe
There ain’t no cure for falling flat on your face.

I could probably hear the crickets, if it wasn’t for the silence. If it wasn’t for the silence I could probably find a reason to give a damn.
I see nothing beyond the inside of my eyes, my mind perceives a blank, uncluttered, space with room enough for everything except the need for anything. .
The only sound around me is of love’s serenade to death.
A soft buzzing… like that of a moth’s melting wings.

My head’s as heavy as a guilty heart.

It’s not the curse of memory that keeps me tethered to this plane of existence that is as devoid of reason and logic as I want it to be. It’s the small cubby hole for sheer stupidity that calls out to something visceral in me, to the basest of instincts.
No not lust, not hunger either. Although those two demons are always welcome, no, This is something else, this is a bit more complex than the need for meat and bit less vulgar than desire. This is a lifetime worth of nothing, a subtle but complete emptiness. A patient black hole on the verge of my existence that waits, knowing that eventually I will find my way down its throat.
Breath crackling, like cobwebs on fire.
Thoughts that could have led me out of this dementia but instead led me deeper still, crackle along
The cherry flares up into a volcano in the darkness all around. I can hear the oxygen burning in tune to my lungs. The silence seeps in through the pores on my skin. Who dared say there were no benefits to load shedding?
This is asking for more than a baptism by surrender. This is looking for more than that first. kiss, that dance, that embrace. This aches and pines for nothing at all. Not a damn thing.
This yearns for a cleansed, born again state of existence that is blessedly destitute of any sense of anything. No good, no evil, even beauty is marginalized. The meaning of life is as unimportant in the look of disgust in your eyes. The retarded smile on my face isn’t for pleasure, pleasure has no meaning because there exists no misery. Happiness is pointless since sadness never came to be. A still, calm river in which even ripples don’t form, its so thick with utter satisfaction. It’s the dead sea of feelings in which no one can ever drown, only float unbound atop the salty heap of our own imagination, our own dreams of freedom and of reprieve.

I remember when I remember I remember when I lost my mind there was something so pleasant about that phase even your emotions have an echo (echo) in so much space…

So much space.

But only for so long. The cherry drops, the silence stops, the moment ends. Let’s go Alice, its time to be victims again.