I am
I was born in a hospital, somewhere in rural nowhere, or perhaps a town, even a city. I first saw light in a sterile room, it’s incumbents following procedure. A heirarchy or doctors, nurses, patients, visitors. Then there was me. I was the both the main draw and the last in line in this birthing procedure. I’m the smallest of man, and I’m screaming for air and crying to go back there. Back there, to my insulated cocoon. Back where it’s warm and all my needs are met. A cry for total dependence.I continued into my childhood and adolescence, those years are a blur.
I’m an adult now in my own home. A humble room rental with other people in some inner city project — Or maybe I own an estate, an isolate on the peninsula of Florida’s state. Regardless, I spend most of my time in a single room. The room I am most comfortable in. But grime builds over time in every sense. A hierarchy even larger dominates my every permeable body from the largest of governments, secret societies, corporations, down the province or states and all the way to the smart phone I cling so dearly onto as a cyborg.
There I am down at the bottom holding my phone. Tapping out into digital space I reach out to all the people I’ve never met or barely see in person. I’m screaming for clean — unpolluted air. I’m screaming for companionship. I’m screaming for somewhere to get out. Most of all I’m screaming to go back there, as far back as I can. I have nostalgic dreams of a better time, disparate waves of fond memories propping me up while I reminisce in my insulated cocoon with total dependence.
My lungs are full of smoke and toxins. In this place where it’s warm and all my needs are met, I intoxicate myself with a great fervor usually meant for the most passionate of lovers. I’m living in a dream and my every permeable body is now wearing out. Tick by tick of the clock I’m slowly wearing into this husk, a ghoulish version of myself. I look away from this because all I believe in is the toxins I consume, this crystal meth.
I will die in a hospital if I’m lucky, somewhere in rural nowhere, or perhaps a town, even a city. My last living light will then be in a sterile room, if I’m even physically able to see or mentally able to perceive what’s there. A hierarchy of doctors, nurses, and visitors like my abandoned family. My family and my friends with whom we’ve both spread oblong, or squared off heatedly into separate directions due to my vagrancy. Then there’s me again, at the bottom of the pillar. Again at the bottom in total dependence.
In my end of ends I will probably be crying. Crying to go back there, to where I was before this life. Somewhere in the abyss that precedes, follows, and foregoes life. A place where there is no hierarchy, no authority over me, no grime, no pain. Nothing. Back again in my insulated cocoon, where nothing exists, I have no body to warm, no needs to meet. My needs will be met in death, independent of existence whether that continues or not.
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