An alleged serial killer was swiftly swinging through ironic person-sized holes in strange mechanical structures that rotated throughout a dystopian sci-fi elevator shaft in an intricate and indistinguishable pattern. He may have been escaping from a futuristic maximum security prison, or just practicing. This faceless antagonist had calculated the timing so precisely that he could execute this feat with ease, while others would have surely died trying. His astounding agility and intelligence were clearly apparent. Another scene involved the killer planning his attacks - surveying various empty houses and other buildings. Suddenly, first person perspective was implemented, which meant I had become the killer. Soon enough, I had the profound realization that I was innocent - that I was actually in my bed, dreaming in REM sleep. This came as quite a relief, as I hid behind a TV, wondering if I would be able to get a few shots off without anyone seeing me. The images in my dream began flickering, fizzling, and turning to static. It was like the end of an ancient reel of 8 mm film, crackling as the quality ominously disintegrated. It was the impatient pops and clicks of a needle clinging to the outer edge of a vinyl record. I became aware that the REM stage was nearly finished, thus completing another sleep cycle. In the distance I could hear a fan and an aquarium. I then made the seemingly autonomous decision to depart from this nostalgic realm of fantasy and return to a warm reality, like being born again. After all, my dreams were crumbling. What would you have done?
I drop my pen, my fingers quivering from the genius that struck my person as if atoms split. While wandering particles winked out of reanimation I feebly attempted to contrive the sweat perforating my skin from swathing over my brow and splashing onto the page hovering below my trembling lip. These would be my last words, written or otherwise. My last hollow attempt to conjugate meaning from my naked conscious before I cover that ugly body with gingham and cloth. For once one bears witness to genius one must succumb to one's own subjacency. True art makes all that surround it seem paltry and wretched, wicked and foul. Art demands to be heard, observed, understood, glorified. Makes mortals bow to the true good, the enlightened mind. It is in this triumphant space that I sit, a mere pathetic shadow to what stands above; it is to you good sir, that I bow.
ReplyDelete