I Am

Searching the room with my eyes, resting upon the familiar sights I've come to base my reality upon: my shoes, my pants, my lighter, my headphones. All of these material things are my perspective, just like my memories build the virtual reality inside my head; this neuroscopic landscape just beneath my skull, with beautiful shards of stained glass clinging to the bare ribs of an old citadel window frame, completes the ideal vision of the inside of my head; although, I imagine there would be more blood as well.

And as I close my eyes, geometric patterns fill the void of my light-deprived orbs, and I see around me fractal elves dancing their silly little dances, beckoning me towards them with gifts of wisdom and enlightenment. Should I follow? Or should I stay behind, to play in the weight of the world. Would I miss my sister? my mother? my friends?

But before I can decide, I am awoken by the response to my question;
"We're made of science."
"What did I ask, again?"
"Why do we see geometric patterns when blood rushes to our heads."
"Oh, right. Makes sense..." I haphazardly convinced myself.

This sort of thing happens often. I ask a question, a fundamental aspect of life that few will ponder, and it receives a lame duck of a response for an answer.

I open my eyes and the walls are breathing, which prompts me to close my eyes once more. It is now that my eyes are jolted open once more, this time my ears filling with the sounds of electric eels with number pads. It is Mikson Cross, my best friend, and he has this to say;
"I am awake and feelin phresh."
"Swayt," I reply,"head on over."
And he does just that, post-haste. The thing to recognize with Mikson is his tenacity for audacity towards his goals, whatever they might be for the time that he decides to act. The next thing to recognize is his basis of life: terminatorology. This can be boiled down to Human Battery Method on a ten-scaled system. Basically, Mikson is a terminator, built to pwn.

As Mikson arrives, my other best friend, Ciara, ring-a-lings me, letting me know she is also on her way. When the three of us are within five feet of each other, we decide it is couch-talk time(this is the time in the party when we all recount our days and talk about things that annoy us). After couch-talk time, we climb out of our feathery doom of a sofa and manage to walk out the front door towards Mikson's house. Mikson lives over the mountains beyond my Cul de sac, which is about 100 yards away from my front door (the cul de sac, not the mountains; the mountains are much further away). With our sunshine in hand, we walk daintily, as ladies do, along the courtyard path, dodging mosquitoes and toads along the way. For me, it is an easy task to handle in the dark (did I mention it was night?), my eyes having already adjusted. I looked up and saw the most beautiful sky a night could offer. The city lights did all they could to silence the sparkling stars, but alas for the town, the stars shone through strong. And why shouldn't they? Are they not giant gas bulbs in space after all? My thoughts are interrupted by the conversation between the two friends who had walked somewhat ahead of me.

"I can get meth," Mikson mumbles.
"We should start a meth study buddy group," Ciara replies.

I race up to join them, only to find the discussion grossly beyond my interests; the discussion was misheard by yours truly. My friends were trying to find MATH, not METH. But with a little reorganization of my brain, I switch from artist to geek and we begin our now out-dated socratic triangle. As we pile into Mikson's Titan, Ciara pokes my shoulder.

"Myes?" I glance back at her, all the while fumbling with my iFuckYourWallet, trying to find the perfect song, only to realize I have no control over what music plays from my device. I can only turn it on, off, onto shuffle, or onto cycle, which is probably my least favorite, with off coming in at second.

"We should pick up a fairy book from my house. You'd really like it, and I've been meaning to show it to you," she whispers, her voice barely audible behind the torrent of technelectro.

Looking at Mikson as he climbs into the driver's seat, he nods and says, "I have no clue as to where you live. But yes, go we shall."

"You know where Soulistus' father lives?"
"Yes."
"My house is right across the street, more or less."

And so Mikson drives his Titanic Truck out and over the mountains, towards his residence, which incidentally rests upon the tallest of these mountains (by mountains I mean very very very slight and gentle hills. Isosceles hills, if you will). Meanwhile, Mikson and I decide to have a music war, where we each play a song we think the other hasn't heard. My part in this competition is somewhat vexed, as my iFuckYourWallet has no pause, play, next, previous, or buttons of any kind. In actuality, it has one switch with three positions (Off, Cycle, Shuffle), and a lever type clip on the back. I can also imagine there being some sort of spring involved in that lever, as it is quite, well, springy.

As phantoms engulf the sounds my ears can decipher, we arrive at Mikson's hold, where we depart from his truck and walk briskly through the enormous wrought-iron gate, adorned with space invaders and glass art. Keeping an eye on Cooly, Mikson's trusted A.D.D. wolf, we ease our way through the dangers and perils that lead towards shelter: a structure built by Mikson's own hands and blood, literally. Okay, not literally, but figuratively yes. And come to think of it, I'm almost certain Mikson spilt blood somewhere on that foundation, and I am certain that he used his hands to build it. So yes, literally.

We steal through the night, sweeping under the slow-dropping gate and into the salvation of the hold, making haste to shut the gate and door behind us.



May the devil take you in your slumber and rape you asunder!