I keep having a daydream, of sorts, where I dive into a giant chocolate cake and somehow swim through it. It's a giant chocolate cake, and it's yummy, but I'm worried that I'll end up making these fantasies a reality; I'm worried that I'll end up baking a giant chocolate cake to swim through, perhaps even trespassing in someone's pool at the same time. This worrying series of thoughts has had me, time and time again, cautiously and carefully approach - and even enter - a bakery, but I've never asked if they'd be able to bake me a giant chocolate cake so that it may serve me well as a swimming pool of sorts... 'The Swimming Cake'.
Sliding slippery chunks of sponge and icing aside with my arms in a languid breast-stroke, yes, I think that would be best.
And there's so much else for me to do; so much that I, as a conscious and almost-cognizant human being could achieve: I could start a new dictatorship and take over Europe, or discover a new element, maybe thrust myself cake-deep into the world of genetics and create some sort of humanoid chicken with which I could share a pint and a cigarette, presuming, of course, that a giant chicken would be able to keep its beak from snapping shut on the cigarette and hence tearing it asunder. But, alas, no, I fell into a daily routine that a coma patient wouldn't find strenuous at all, and I'm curious about creating various psychoactive and euphoric compounds from codeine, not to mention curious about whining about the current lack of dihydrocodeine, which could very likely - and I wouldn't know anything about this, at all - be extracted from its dangerous Paracetamol peers and repurposed into a more enjoyably fun shape, like hydromorphone or something like that... maybe.
It would be nice to get a new body, I think. The problem lies with my brain, yes, but I'm sick of my hands shaking uncontrollably. I'll never be able to take the best photographs with hands like these, jolts of electricity constantly flapping the muscles beneath my thin, pale and snake-like-skin back and forth. I can't even roll a single cigarette, which is outrageous; the act of self-poisoning in order to be socially accepted by my colleagues, kin and peers is one that has existed for decades, if not centuries - even millenia!
And in my head I'm still swimming through a big, delicious chocolate cake.
But I encounter Sisyphus, who's too busy straining against the boulder above him that, were he to speak but a word, 'twould crash back down the mountain to the bottom and leave him heartbroken. So I sit, for a while, and watch the man whose muscle mass has been focused entirely upon this one abominable stone for centuries, and the act of forcing it to the top of its perch, only to forever outwit the once incredibly-cunning old man, but even as he stands there, panting and sweating and covered in dust, I cannot determine whether he feels positively or negatively about the entire experience. Surely as I sit in this daydream within a daydream, all of it within the comforting confines of a chocolate cake large enough to dive into, filled with industrial-strength cake icing and every bit as delicious as was promised, it's impossible to know whether he's glad that the stone got to the top, even though he failed.
I ask the immortal for a moment of his time, but he doesn't even pause before sprinting down to the bottom of the hillock, mountain or whatever you'd call it (I don't claim to be a poet) in order to roll the stone again. Ever upwards and almost painfully so, it seems: why's he doing this?
I'll get my answer later, maybe with the aid of some chloroform and a rag. Later, maybe.
So my hands are shaking and I'm standing in a public house - one of my favorites - and enjoying a nice glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice along with the newspaper and a novel; some beat piece I've wanted to read for a while, but it's nothing too important, though I don't want to contradict myself... it just feels that, well, since entering into my twenties I've remained a teenager.
You buy a car. You pass your driving test. In my case I bought a motorbike because I enjoy flirting with death; it seems as though so many methods of untimely-demise have been deployed to steal my everlasting soul, but none have fully succeeded and so maybe it's just down to me to finish myself off. My curse may very-well be that I must end my life of my own volition and curiosity, eager to see what all of the fuss is about.
I've travelled the world and fallen in love and seen sights of beauty, tasted the most delicious food (sweet-meats for my sweet-teeth), inhaled such enticing aromas that my nose may now be redundant and I've certainly touched, indeed more than I should have and more than I was allowed to, although nobody was complaining - at least, not at the time.
So, you rent a place at an extortionate rate, you buy a car or a bike and you have your license, which along with a passport gives you freedom, and then you've got to pass through the echelons of academia and become a respected expert within a particular field.
I just can't avoid the distractions. I wasn't built for conventional academia. I can see myself swimming through cake to get a diploma, but a library? Ah, I'd damage the books!
These distractions...
Sliding slippery chunks of sponge and icing aside with my arms in a languid breast-stroke, yes, I think that would be best.
And there's so much else for me to do; so much that I, as a conscious and almost-cognizant human being could achieve: I could start a new dictatorship and take over Europe, or discover a new element, maybe thrust myself cake-deep into the world of genetics and create some sort of humanoid chicken with which I could share a pint and a cigarette, presuming, of course, that a giant chicken would be able to keep its beak from snapping shut on the cigarette and hence tearing it asunder. But, alas, no, I fell into a daily routine that a coma patient wouldn't find strenuous at all, and I'm curious about creating various psychoactive and euphoric compounds from codeine, not to mention curious about whining about the current lack of dihydrocodeine, which could very likely - and I wouldn't know anything about this, at all - be extracted from its dangerous Paracetamol peers and repurposed into a more enjoyably fun shape, like hydromorphone or something like that... maybe.
It would be nice to get a new body, I think. The problem lies with my brain, yes, but I'm sick of my hands shaking uncontrollably. I'll never be able to take the best photographs with hands like these, jolts of electricity constantly flapping the muscles beneath my thin, pale and snake-like-skin back and forth. I can't even roll a single cigarette, which is outrageous; the act of self-poisoning in order to be socially accepted by my colleagues, kin and peers is one that has existed for decades, if not centuries - even millenia!
And in my head I'm still swimming through a big, delicious chocolate cake.
But I encounter Sisyphus, who's too busy straining against the boulder above him that, were he to speak but a word, 'twould crash back down the mountain to the bottom and leave him heartbroken. So I sit, for a while, and watch the man whose muscle mass has been focused entirely upon this one abominable stone for centuries, and the act of forcing it to the top of its perch, only to forever outwit the once incredibly-cunning old man, but even as he stands there, panting and sweating and covered in dust, I cannot determine whether he feels positively or negatively about the entire experience. Surely as I sit in this daydream within a daydream, all of it within the comforting confines of a chocolate cake large enough to dive into, filled with industrial-strength cake icing and every bit as delicious as was promised, it's impossible to know whether he's glad that the stone got to the top, even though he failed.
I ask the immortal for a moment of his time, but he doesn't even pause before sprinting down to the bottom of the hillock, mountain or whatever you'd call it (I don't claim to be a poet) in order to roll the stone again. Ever upwards and almost painfully so, it seems: why's he doing this?
I'll get my answer later, maybe with the aid of some chloroform and a rag. Later, maybe.
So my hands are shaking and I'm standing in a public house - one of my favorites - and enjoying a nice glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice along with the newspaper and a novel; some beat piece I've wanted to read for a while, but it's nothing too important, though I don't want to contradict myself... it just feels that, well, since entering into my twenties I've remained a teenager.
You buy a car. You pass your driving test. In my case I bought a motorbike because I enjoy flirting with death; it seems as though so many methods of untimely-demise have been deployed to steal my everlasting soul, but none have fully succeeded and so maybe it's just down to me to finish myself off. My curse may very-well be that I must end my life of my own volition and curiosity, eager to see what all of the fuss is about.
I've travelled the world and fallen in love and seen sights of beauty, tasted the most delicious food (sweet-meats for my sweet-teeth), inhaled such enticing aromas that my nose may now be redundant and I've certainly touched, indeed more than I should have and more than I was allowed to, although nobody was complaining - at least, not at the time.
So, you rent a place at an extortionate rate, you buy a car or a bike and you have your license, which along with a passport gives you freedom, and then you've got to pass through the echelons of academia and become a respected expert within a particular field.
I just can't avoid the distractions. I wasn't built for conventional academia. I can see myself swimming through cake to get a diploma, but a library? Ah, I'd damage the books!
These distractions...