Music for mice. Acid for giants. Urban fairy tales for feather brains.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

No, it isn't imaginary.

It's not the boy with his finger in the levee's hole. 
I think it's much worse.

Each friend, each relation, each partner, each individual on this blue planet who needs or wants something from me wants my blood and then wants to kick my dry carcass.

It's personal. I don't believe that I'm in control of my life in the way that people seem to think I am. That somehow, if I wanted, I could do things the way I wanted to. That I could stop the noise and hear only the birds and the slow budding and eventual lilt of flowers.

It's personal.

Children in their moms' and dads' back seats can't wait to get home so they can black out the eyes on pictures of me. Dogs behind Koreatown dumpsters howl and and lick their lips when they see me on Wilshire Blvd. Police men sleep with my mugshot under their pillows. The sun reminds the moon that all will be better when I am gone.

Perhaps I'll occupy an unmarked grave, facedown, drug-war execution style (minus the drugs, the war, and the execution), in, say, the Mojave Desert (where all of California's despair comes to rest on the hottest days of the year).

All creatures, all conditions, all systems, will finally work out their 29 year old bugs when I close my eyes forever. They will perform nature's tasks more efficiently when I've been passed through our cosmic digestion. The universe will sing it's work songs and lullabies in tune once again.

It's personal. It should be plain to see. Nobody ever seems to think that the world is out to get them anymore. It's an unpopular attitude. It's seen as melodrama, as egocentrism, as if the one feeling it has some sort of paranoid persecution complex. Bullshit. The sooner we teach our children that there is a strong possibility that they will be one day be devoured by their surroundings, the more equipped they'll be in the event this occurs.

Just remember: Everyone and everything is out to get you. 

Y  O  U   A  R  E   F  U  C  K  E  D . 

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