“I don’t speak destiny.”
The smoke from the specially rolled cigarette of the dried angel’s wing that was drenched in the dust of Tinkerbell’s pussy juice; vortex in the clear porcelain wall of wine glass. Instead of wine, the liquid that swirls in the homely womb of the glass is the blood of the space leviathan of the species Meinanus Kaftus from the snow-filled planet of Quenian in the Zhen Lian Solar System.
The psychoactive particles from the mythical smokes floors the dense mind stimulant of intergalactic being’s bodily fluid before being absorb in a chaotic transference of coded microscopic energies of the two elements.
The Man shakes the glass and inhale the smoke before gulping the psychedelic brew. As it travels through the trachea of the consumer, it pushes the smoke faster into the blood stream; forcing the smoke to merges into the fasten pumps of the aorta’s highway. The liquid then falls into the stomach acid and evaporates into the walls making it’s way into the blood stream as well.
The euphoric energy of both substance floods the pink wrinkly brain of the consumer with intense neuroplasticity connections of neurons. The juices overflowing the sulci and firing the gyri with explosions of synapses creating a high frequency symphony that unlocks the quantum doors into the dimension of the others.
Heart stalled. Your consciousness is forced to the back of your cerebellum before a firework of revelation opens the window to the gods.
“Everything that arises must converged.”
Fuck, this is some good shit. Expensive and rare type of high that only a handful of people could experience. A luxurious commodity but for me this is just another night. My sanity is long gone or maybe I’m just starting to see thing for what they really are, I can never be too sure. Some say I’m schizophrenic; but the my dick says otherwise. I might be able to trick myself to think my mind altering substances originate from some sort of mythical and galactic origin but the feeling of this Inter-Dimensional chick sucking my dick is undeniable.
The sensation of an 11th Dimensional Being seducing and caressing your most sensitive organ is indescribable. She doesn’t just grope your skin; she nibbles on your vibrating atoms, sucks on your juicy molecular structures, kisses your body’s timeline in the Fourth Dimension (Time), licks your spiritual ether in the Fifth and god knows what she’s doing on the other levels.
I’m not even sure if it’s a she, in fact I don’t think they have a gender preference. It makes no difference to me for the sexual experience with such a creature it’s an addiction that can never be fulfill with human gals but I still need them since these Dimensional whores are tough to contact.
*Scratch*Scratch* Fucking Rodents. People tend to forget that this city used to be a jungle. And even now its past haunts us with scratching of the musangs as they scrimmage above on your roof. Sure, it’s not that common in the suburban neighbourhood but try sleeping in the commercialized shop lots where the alleys are so dirty that the rats does not fear the homeless sleeping on their cardboard and the cats are too busy prostituting for attentions; then you’ll understand the noise that I speak of.
What the fuck am I writing about? What the fuck is this about? I have no idea. There is no frame of reference for people to understand this post.
People love to say, “I’m not like everyone else, I’m a little crazy.” or “I am taking the road less travel.” Fuck ’em all. That’s boring. There is no such thing as normal. In fact from personal experience that’s a normal person response when defending their personality traits and choices in life. I hate it, I feel like that’s the programmed answer of being so-called unique. For me I would never say that (anymore) since it would meant that I am affirming that there is a normality in human society. I know for a fact that everyone is fucking crazy, one way or another. Some hides it better than the rest.
I dont even bother walking on the fucking road. I’ve already travel too far into the wilderness to find my way back there. I’ve become Émile Durkheim’s “Anomie” to that whole road of the human journey or what not. I know for the fact that I am Sisyphus on my time in this earth, so why the fuck would I bother carrying the boulder up your mountain when I can roll that shit over to the edge and carry my own burden of my choosing.
You may see me as a broke ass nigga and you’ll be right, you may wonder why I dont bother changing my predicaments to suit your views of stability.
You see, being the lower class citizen in an art industry is way more rewarding than being an elitist of an oil empire. Sure, I maybe poor and dealing with the dirtiest shit everyday but my soul is clean from guilt and my mind is enriched with an abundance of cultural novelties from visual pleasure to audio meditations and words of ‘pussy’bilities. The compulsory military training I had endure for three months was nothing compared to the life of a gallery’s voluntary servant. I can easily zone out during a hot day’s march making it easier for me to be the general’s meat puppets but being an artist’s padawan is whole other level of discipline and stamina that uses your entire strength from both body, mind and soul.
“What is Fake?”
“Not being yourself. Not being who you really are.”
“And Who are you?”
I am not an artist, I am not a writer. I am not a story teller. I am a warrior. I have pledge my life and my faith into these men. I will live and die by my post. After all, we’re just stories in the end. A man named Ragnar Lodbrok may have existed in the past. Though there is no clear evidence of his existence but yet he is culturally accepted as a legendary fact. A viking hero of Genghis Khan proportion. One could argue that he is just an amalgam of several figures or he is just another literary invention. His story is so powerful to be considered as a historical fact that it has to reside in the real of Myths. How many of those folklore are based on real events that is lost in time? Did Hang Tuah ever served the sultan?
And how long before Time will forget us and debate our existence, if they even care at all about us.
I say many great tales are lost in the dust of eons and turned to great creative narrative, sure it could be exaggerated with generations. Maybe the Gods of polytheism are too real stories of the Great Men during our first steps on this earth in pre-history era. Maybe it’s not. But we wished we know if only for the comfort that maybe we too will be remembered in the next thousand years.
I do not care about being part of history. I dont want to be remembered in your books. I want to be a ‘Myth’. I want to fight till my last breath, and scream at the dying of the light. Die with dignity. Live with passion. Fulfill the mission assigned by my lords. I am Albert Camus’s “The Stranger”.
I am high as fuck. Shit, I’ve got an interview tomorrow with John Cermark.