The Quantum of a Tunneling Syndrome
Gasping and trembling are often very voluptuously seductive to the frail minds of indecent humans. Indecency, I say is not that of sexual pleasure or pervertedness, for only one that is unfamiliar with danger thinks that of those. It is I, who says that the real danger lies in the currency that runs the world. Our banknotes are also of the sexual nature, an irrelevant aspect that is a distraction to satisfy and to dissatisfy, casting shadow and doubt on existence and purpose. Mere seductions, crafted intricately to obfuscate the real currency of the world. It is also I who says we are but puppets in a world of action, for rather, we are characters, in a world of words.
Language, the brute! - manipulating every soul, humble or vile regardless, leading into desperation and resentment. Language is indeed the currency of the world. It runs us to ruin. I say that I am of indecent nature as I have nurtured my conscience to thrive in a world of words. Regardless of my own creation, my eyes have been trained to focus solely on the things and the ways of this very world where words tell us all is available and nothing is permitted.
I wield the power to view every one thing as a combination of words, the implications containing a depth as far as the seventh ring of hell. And as I immerse myself into the world of literature, I manifest my way closer to the cold and brittle truth that I am of indecent nature. All that are indecent, are those like me that have defected too far to the vivid side.
What it is we seek is unknown. We make the choice regardless of the malevolence we could face. We are aware of it, and are consumed by it, but it is my personal indecency that throttles my capabilities, allowing for me to do nothing more than to write about it.
Gasping and trembling are indeed very voluptuously seductive to the frail minds when such are faced with the challenge of competence. I was put to the test by the gods above earlier this morning, when I had seemingly been made aware of my mortality, upon a leisurely stroll along Granby Row. Had the skies been of clarity, I perhaps would have been of no preconception, and had the trees not been absolved of tasteful fruit, my arousal would have had substance to feast.
And had I not been of indecent nature, I would have turned a blind eye to the things I had seen and the things I had seen them as. Had I not been the
twisted defector I pride myself on being, I would not congratulate myself on possessing demonic thoughts. I am the one, the one of the many, that pulls the mouths apart and forces a voice into mundane objects. I had seen the birds as a freedom, the grass as order of the military, the pebbles and cobble as sharing, and the buildings around as the solar system.
But those mere mundane objects - I had seen them as just that! I had seen how pathetic they were, having no voice of their own, and I exploited and twisted every one of them, dictating their tales to be whatever I wanted them to be. They were all a stupid existence - worthless in every regard! - and none of them were to even arouse my ego, and none of them were to even offer comfort to the heart.
Forgiveness, for I have defected too far, but blissful ignorance is surely not how I prescribe. Had it only been so easy for me to make shadows, my tongue would not be so vulgar. Language - my brute, t’was indeed! I drew my bow and shot the words, each arrow being a séance to the very devil himself. My mortality, exponential, as I was invulnerable in this very simple deal.
But my trajectories were launched into a vicious loop of personal demise when the devil had come back to get the one very thing he said needed to obtain he. The transaction I took in a heart beat and quickly I was given the defect I begged. And that sly devil penetrated my thoughts, cunning as they were, by seducing sexually a pathetic memory I held. Of a girl it was, who I had multiple touches with. And with her it was that I realised how stupid I was at speech, turning my begging into prayers. It was still something my incompetent body wanted, her surrender, even though my mind shut down my defected side. But if only t’were the mind that controlled the gasping and trembling. Horrors of the inglorious kind! My shivers were same of a breadcrumb trail from disagreeance to concession. Every jolt told of an increasing darkness, and of a vulgarity my tongue hid from.
Coldness and frailty - my body steered out of grasp of mind! Uncontrollable, the things of the body, ruthless they are! The heart loud and the mind quiet. My defection had ceased so easily. Every touch of hers had now resonated through my mind and body as whips to my legs! Like stalagmites I stood, statue of the likeness! Drowned in blood was my head, and, like a bag of plastic over, chained around my neck, my suffocation
believed. Lust and love, no longer mere distractions, swallowed me as if I were Jonah - the wetness of mortality soon was felt. The skin and the substance that forms the walls of the heart are the softest that can be. For it was that very same girl, who felt my concession was too merciful, stabbed me had she, with four arrows from the very righteous quiver of cupid, into my most delicate skin of heart, and out of the contraption she brutally constructed, out of her want and will, a ferris wheel! - she made of my heart.
Language - the brute! Her manipulation was a mere trial and error, her head just . Answers, needed she, supported a scaffolding of victory. That very brute had she turned into her own beastful pet, drooling at the scent of fresh blood I had once shed . The warmth was felt again. I had conquered the influx she crafted in mine own mind. A fond memory no longer was she, my defection said was the messenger of a pestilence.
The torture was much and my body became a mere bag of sand! The hits, punches, kicks, and stabs - I could take all. Out into the battlefields I ran, away from the cowardice of the barracks! My medals were of the honourable craftsmanship and confident in my archery, I laced each arrow with the poison of cruel description as I confronted the hellhound she bore. I assassinated that beast, an arrow in each of its stalking eyes, and while it ran around as a blind man being instructed on direction, I reduced the vicinity. I gripped that fucker, with my calloused fingers, by its throat as I pulled its tongue out. As delicate as it is, it was more vulgar than mine and so, until the tearing of tissues, I had an unbreakable concentration.
At last, its voice was raped, and I embraced the laughter I cued, at the sight of that gruesome accomplishment. She was no longer as manipulative as before, and that very beast of ravenous disgust she bore from her body was my victim. The test that the gods determined? Merely too easy for - a simple checkmate! Her memory was the dearest I held, but her ways the most dreadful.
Vengeance, sweeter than the very body of the gods, I had orchestrated. I was a prince with a charming darkness, a kindler of forest fires, a brolly for overwhelming sleet, and the man that crucified the pestilence that confronted him.
Amusement is what we defectors take in cruelty. For if others such don’t, I can only say that they have not defected far enough. My actions were those akin to a god, but the power is not indefinite. The devil had to complete the very trade that gifted me this disability. Lingering thoughts in looming minds, often the arm of choice of the devil, are devastatingly explosive. My presumed immortality was soon to be taken away! The form of existence I accustomed to living in was to be kidnapped, and suffocated! I could not bear to accept fate. My destiny was abducted.
For it was around nine after evening when I had sat myself lawfully on a lofty chair, holding my head in a world high above the one I had previously associated myself with, it was in this world that my place was defined to be the lounge of my residence, dented with the presence of many others sat amongst each other. I hadn’t previously predicted of the impending malevolence I was almost certain to be immersed in at the time of the slaughter. It was in the darkest corner I chose my rest, and viewed the others at a distance. I was too scared to confront the only thought I had since the killing, which was,
‘Was my vulgarity superior to that of my victim?’
The horrors of my actions - how I held that life, choking its sore throat, and giving it a party of worse nature than that of the beating of a humble piñata . I took from her, all she had. That was how pathetic she was. But, aghast was I at the dawning that the devil was soon to take all I had - my indeceny!
What I have written is that of the overthinking nature. But, to my misfortune, I found there no other. Nothing was there to seduce my thought! Although the foaming of noise is comforting to many, it is I, a vile creature, that chooses to call it the ringing in one’s ears instead of a chorus. And although the immolation of oneself into the often comforting norm of company, it was and is the other many in that same room that were in agreeance that too much knowing is in fact beneficial. And although the seemingly endless supply of snack spawned in the world and manifested its way through the two entrance doors, it was those very same others that believed their fuel lied in not their thought. And although the creeping devices that resonated whispers of those distant, it was and is, once again, I, a ravenous imbecile, competent of withholding distance, who is the only one
in that very same ominous space that believed in a world of indecency and defection, one that the many others could never associate themselves with!
Amidst a crippling throttling of a freedom akin to vultures circling the skies, I was left remorseful and resentful at the unearthing of the truth that I was unable to dream. And, that very same world, which I perceived as a portal away from reality’s impending malevolence, was taken! Stupendousness and guilt halted my flow of ink, and left me alone and ashamed of the nature accompanying my being.
It was all I could do to escape from the world of malevolence into a sandbox where even castles weren’t the mightiest of things that could be fostered. The horrors of actions - Nay! The horrors of my thoughts kept walking at pace in the long corridors that seemingly had no turns, no windows, and no doors through which that stalker could leave, to grant me the solace of arresting the throttling. How daunting and distasteful! - the looming thoughts were work of the devilish nature.
Incredibly, I found no one but myself to valiantly point the finger at, despising the character contained within the husk, as the orchestrator of cruelty with a shivering gruesomeness. I could not bear to think that I laughed at the murder, and knew that my defection was too far. Indecency, a few degrees off course, and I was knighting myself about this displeasure. I appointed myself as the architect of personal demise, for if it wasn’t solace that were to be the solution, it was vindication I sought.
Gone was the wringing of the wrongs, the hate from the happenings, the care of the conscious, and the respect of regard. A new idea was born, slowly growing limbs and forming shape out of once what was a deep chasm of shadows dictated by terror and security, scrutiny and despise! But yet was to come the, what I had previously presumed and written of as, uncertain completion of transaction and inevitable malevolence in the material world.
There she stood, acceptance, the whore, staring right back at me in my eyes. She was no longer as voluptuous as she was a witch. Acceptance - the filthy prostitute she can be! I was forced to bed her pathetic nature - I was forced to accept the exact nature of my doings! Its malevolence embodied me with comfort no longer, and had done nothing of the sort that even left a scent of happiness. For if I were to enhance and please my present company,
what I would be doing was a sin of the stature I had previously not delved into, as it was, in its frightful misery indeed, the stature of abandonment.
Gone, again! - was my former self, as the night grew long, and dark, and the shadows seemed to have formed their very treacherous and trampling selves, somehow in the absence of a light. Panic and terror, what once were, had crafted upon themselves, in my shadow ridden shell with limiting confines, the oasis of mania. The vindication of all that attributes itself to man was not taken kindly, as the shadow I became, absent of all things humane, chose to exercise laughter at the sight of the evil. The loosening of the grasps of reality had further obfuscated, cynically, the reasoning and instead joy was felt at the stimulus of drought. Plague and macabre soon turned to fancies as I carefully allowed the mind to embrace the dark thought, reverberating feelings from that same ring I once had spoken of. But all defections are mere cobwebs around an old and aging, ticking clock.
It was the angelic voice of a cherub that resonated from my loudly beating heart, thunderous in every pump, like a funeral drum, thumping, capturing mortality the only way it can. The cherub’s voice, I had not known, drenched in a serenity, often is encrypted into the souls of the living. Speaking freely in tones of brighter chords than before, the voice battled many others akin, until he, the cherub, found himself at confrontation with the same witch as before, the whore of acceptance.
For their battles of valour were soon proven to be in vain, it was I , a humble soul, that made the connection to the innocence I felt at first birth. The cherub, he had fallen victim to the murder of chivalry. She was victorious, and I was in need of something greater than vindication. What I needed was to be the bringer of tears, the piper of sorrow, the instructor of indecency, and most of all, the man who passes the sentence.
Absolution was what I sought. I twirl’d the chamber and lifted the heavy metal frame, whilst still amidst that room of many. I prayed for the escape from what I grew to call a death camp. I was to build myself a tunnel through which I shall crawl out of the imprisonment, through the remaining mortality.
I pulled the trigger, and I shot myself in the head, and the bullet made the tunnel connecting my temples, from which I was allowed to ooze out of confinement and into absolution.