My room at the first house I rented with friends. Death was turned away at the door of that abode so often that he simply stopped visiting.
However, I do believe that he then stole our mail frequently.
There was a time in my life when a handful of opiates and a bottle of something bitter would have swiftly drowned out the anxiety-inducing howls of a society on the brink of cannibalism. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I’ve achieved a level of sobriety that no longer allows for such escapades. So, in place of this, I’m forced to rely on the long-fermented brew of fatalism to get me through the day.
I recall ritualistic sessions in the woods, clandestine assemblies with a select few friends, throughout my teenage years. Under the righteous summer sun, we passed a tightly rolled joint around an even tighter circle, and together in jest, we dreamt of what the apocalypse would smell like. I don’t think any of us expected to become accustomed to the pungent stench before we stumbled into our thirties.
The prediction of a world fucked into oblivion by weaponized sex-robots at the behest of some rogue Artificial Intelligence with an inferiority complex seems like an exceptionally favorable crescendo, in comparison. Alas, we are human after all, so to the monotonous narrative of political corruption and greed shall we cling.
Today, I look out on a world that screams reckoning and echoes nothing but the low growls of an empty stomach. A hopeless configuration, one bound for spontaneous combustion. A planet inhabited by walking kindling, sweating nitroglycerin, and rapidly approaching the heart of a system that burns unruly with an open flame.
The vast majority of us exist as the air does between the cheek of a boxer and the rampaging glove of his opponent. However, there is a madness in the mind that grows increasingly pervasive as the sun sets, and, when it rises, the twisted and fractured face of humanity is illuminated. If we continue to lose our form, we will become the oppressive shadows of our nightmare construct.
I have no means of halting this horrific metamorphosis. These are simply the reflections of a man who steps in and out of time, greeted by a progressively deformed image of home when he returns. I can only say that when I peer out the window as I write this and witness a Pigeon preening its kin on the naked branch of some withering tree, I see more kindness in this act than I do in the hearts of humanity, as it stands.