FrozenLightning
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Sep 2, 2004
- Messages
- 30
Hi, I just made my first post over in Trip Reports about Salvia, and I was told this would be a more appropriate place for my writing- so if anyone desires, they can read that report here-
Salvia 15x Extract- +++ - Salivation
But as for this, this is a little short story I wrote when I was 15. It's a very extended metaphor, and it may be a bit dreary. I hope someone gets something out of it, I like feedback
Thanks,
Mike
A sinister calm
Even the walls looked horrible and menacing to him at this point. Everything worked counterproductive against him, that single entity floating in an ocean of irrelevancies, or rationalizations with no roots. But what was he trying to produce? Even he didn’t know, or it was so lost and buried deep within the windings of his mind, that he couldn’t even begin to clarify that blurred image of a once righteous and just idea. Pharon lay sprawled on the floor, cold and pale yet perspiring voraciously across his epidermis. Only the very pit of his acid-ridden stomach kept any hint of warmth, yet it was more than warmth, it was a fire, a kindling and sizzling flame that ate him alive, ignited by his very own life. Pharon rubbed his freezing hands; they felt lifeless and inhuman as they meshed dryly against one another.
A dim scraping cacophony reverberated off of the scaled surfaces, and the blurb of lubricated skin, a result of the perspiration. Supernumerary amounts of thought thrashed violently across Pharon’s dead cortex, only one thought peered through brightly and happily, the one sure thought, the one thing that his mind knew could be certain and eternal, death. Before it had seemed so grotesque, so uninviting, so morbid that it was impossible to fathom the sickening end result of the act committed on oneself. Now though, it was under a new and phosphorescent white light. One that promised peace and goodness alongside prosperity, righteousness, and the ability to do as one pleased. The light seemed to pour off of the edges of its foci rapidly, spilling into a beautiful pearl pool deep within the bowels of Pharon’s conscious. This moor of liquid lay innate, ever rifting with the energy of another droplet, causing perfectly shaped waves, with equal and brilliant amplitude to perambulate the smooth surface that lay beyond them. It was eternal, it was real and inducing, caring and forgiving. His mind wanted to reach out and touch it, to ravenously grab and swallow the trifle of liquid in one gulp.
Thoughts tried and tried again, but their appendages were treacherous to the mind’s cause. One shot here, one shot there, all fell with a dampening thud against the surreal environment. Pharon was unable to discern whether this was actually a physical reality, or something conjured up by the vast possibilities of the mind. Serotonin and dopamine toyed with him, or with itself, what was he? It was impossible to tell. Electrifying, chaotic and confused thoughts jumped abundantly across Pharon’s receptors, and they were received, but with shrill indifference of the entire mind. Insecure delusions drove him mad with fury and anger, his leaden ears faintly picking up the sound of voices, of informers, more of what he should do, what he didn’t do, why he didn’t do it, everyone trying to reason for him, trying to make him a pupil for their school of thought. Conflicting, coinciding, it didn’t really matter. The fact was the voices were there, shouting, screaming, crying, forcing. Forcing. And it became realization, that was it, he was never given the time to think for himself, to let his thoughts run their own course, and decide their own destiny.
No, his body had become a vestibule of the humans around him, of the apathetic and indifferent individuals that stared at him daily, that lay their cold, glaring stares against him with disdain. There was one last utopia, one last pure place, fluxing in its magnificent brilliance. Again now, it appeared loud and screaming, blasting away Pharon’s pure thought and senses. His hand twitched violently, shaking uncontrollably as it hovered slowly toward the pool. There. It was done, a digit touched the pulsating white pool. Fingertips felt the cold and hard surface of it, contours of the waves seemed comforting, and they were arranged in a circular pattern, six of them in all, around the cylinder, perfectly symmetrical. One finger flicked the pool on the crest of a wave, and it clicked and jigged as it looked at him from the dark center, where all life seemed to be flowing. More firmly now, his hand held the pool with a steadfast hardness.
His other hand trembled across the nominal distance and touched the edge of the pool where it flowed out in an oval ocular shape, and then it pushed against it, more, more, and the pool tensed up, the little perfect waves seeming to stop and drudge up in their path. A violent thunderhead burst from the inner abyss, and sent itself flying through Pharon’s mind. The pool sucked his body inward as it clanked loudly against the carpet floor, and Pharon lay there on that sweet plateau, free from everything menacing, free from worldly desires and pains, free from all, free from himself.
Salvia 15x Extract- +++ - Salivation
But as for this, this is a little short story I wrote when I was 15. It's a very extended metaphor, and it may be a bit dreary. I hope someone gets something out of it, I like feedback
Thanks,Mike
A sinister calm
Even the walls looked horrible and menacing to him at this point. Everything worked counterproductive against him, that single entity floating in an ocean of irrelevancies, or rationalizations with no roots. But what was he trying to produce? Even he didn’t know, or it was so lost and buried deep within the windings of his mind, that he couldn’t even begin to clarify that blurred image of a once righteous and just idea. Pharon lay sprawled on the floor, cold and pale yet perspiring voraciously across his epidermis. Only the very pit of his acid-ridden stomach kept any hint of warmth, yet it was more than warmth, it was a fire, a kindling and sizzling flame that ate him alive, ignited by his very own life. Pharon rubbed his freezing hands; they felt lifeless and inhuman as they meshed dryly against one another.
A dim scraping cacophony reverberated off of the scaled surfaces, and the blurb of lubricated skin, a result of the perspiration. Supernumerary amounts of thought thrashed violently across Pharon’s dead cortex, only one thought peered through brightly and happily, the one sure thought, the one thing that his mind knew could be certain and eternal, death. Before it had seemed so grotesque, so uninviting, so morbid that it was impossible to fathom the sickening end result of the act committed on oneself. Now though, it was under a new and phosphorescent white light. One that promised peace and goodness alongside prosperity, righteousness, and the ability to do as one pleased. The light seemed to pour off of the edges of its foci rapidly, spilling into a beautiful pearl pool deep within the bowels of Pharon’s conscious. This moor of liquid lay innate, ever rifting with the energy of another droplet, causing perfectly shaped waves, with equal and brilliant amplitude to perambulate the smooth surface that lay beyond them. It was eternal, it was real and inducing, caring and forgiving. His mind wanted to reach out and touch it, to ravenously grab and swallow the trifle of liquid in one gulp.
Thoughts tried and tried again, but their appendages were treacherous to the mind’s cause. One shot here, one shot there, all fell with a dampening thud against the surreal environment. Pharon was unable to discern whether this was actually a physical reality, or something conjured up by the vast possibilities of the mind. Serotonin and dopamine toyed with him, or with itself, what was he? It was impossible to tell. Electrifying, chaotic and confused thoughts jumped abundantly across Pharon’s receptors, and they were received, but with shrill indifference of the entire mind. Insecure delusions drove him mad with fury and anger, his leaden ears faintly picking up the sound of voices, of informers, more of what he should do, what he didn’t do, why he didn’t do it, everyone trying to reason for him, trying to make him a pupil for their school of thought. Conflicting, coinciding, it didn’t really matter. The fact was the voices were there, shouting, screaming, crying, forcing. Forcing. And it became realization, that was it, he was never given the time to think for himself, to let his thoughts run their own course, and decide their own destiny.
No, his body had become a vestibule of the humans around him, of the apathetic and indifferent individuals that stared at him daily, that lay their cold, glaring stares against him with disdain. There was one last utopia, one last pure place, fluxing in its magnificent brilliance. Again now, it appeared loud and screaming, blasting away Pharon’s pure thought and senses. His hand twitched violently, shaking uncontrollably as it hovered slowly toward the pool. There. It was done, a digit touched the pulsating white pool. Fingertips felt the cold and hard surface of it, contours of the waves seemed comforting, and they were arranged in a circular pattern, six of them in all, around the cylinder, perfectly symmetrical. One finger flicked the pool on the crest of a wave, and it clicked and jigged as it looked at him from the dark center, where all life seemed to be flowing. More firmly now, his hand held the pool with a steadfast hardness.
His other hand trembled across the nominal distance and touched the edge of the pool where it flowed out in an oval ocular shape, and then it pushed against it, more, more, and the pool tensed up, the little perfect waves seeming to stop and drudge up in their path. A violent thunderhead burst from the inner abyss, and sent itself flying through Pharon’s mind. The pool sucked his body inward as it clanked loudly against the carpet floor, and Pharon lay there on that sweet plateau, free from everything menacing, free from worldly desires and pains, free from all, free from himself.
