CaptainWacky
I want to smell dark matter
He was at the centre, he was the centre, he is the centre, it comes out of him, all of it, he projects it around him, but something's wrong, he isn't controlling it, or he's only doing so subconsciously and his subconscious has turned against him, is his subconscious or is his subconscious some seperate entity that lives inside him, he makes it, doesn't he, it can only know what he knows, surely, why would it hurt him, does he want to hurt himself, no, it's not that, it's not any of that, he's indulging again, getting lost in fantasy, wasting time, time, time so precious, ticking away, DO SOMETHING, but why, why not, WHY, what difference does it make, still passes, he's already dead, this is the moment, the only moment, one moment and it's called life, this is it, this is him living, this is him dying, this is him, nothing more, nothing less, but he is less, less than everyone else and getting less still, spiralling, falling, words for analogies, doesn't like them but they're all he has, he is nothing, there is nothing, this is it, he blinked in he will blink out, all from him, all too him, out and in, time, the universe, perception, nothing, can't cope, got it wrong early, never got it right, never will, this is all, this is it, just going to die.
He breathed.
Thinking that, all that, had made his body disappear, but it was back now, and it was sore, but still seperate, abstract. He was a 90 year old man in a nursing home, waiting to die. He was surprised he had made it so long.
No.
He looked up, it was his ceiling, his bedroom ceiling, he was in bed, of course he was in bed, he was always in bed, never wake up, can't wake up, can't cope, will never be enough, not for him, sleep, sleep, eyes closed, CLOSED, stayed closed, not hard, sleep, yes, he could sleep, he had mastered sleep.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling. Felt like a memory, but it was live. How could he tell? His brain was just recreating what he thought the ceiling looked like. A mixture of memories and input, probably. Not real. But he wasn't 90. Not yet. Might never be. He hadn't jumped forward in time. He was just here, 26, no future, no present, only the past.
He tried to remember the past but it seemed to be happening to someone else when he did.
So just this then. Just the ceiling, the bed, his sore body...and a total feeling of unreality. He let it wash over him. He slept, he was awake, it didn't matter. He just wasn't. For a while.
Then he had to pee.
He breathed.
Thinking that, all that, had made his body disappear, but it was back now, and it was sore, but still seperate, abstract. He was a 90 year old man in a nursing home, waiting to die. He was surprised he had made it so long.
No.
He looked up, it was his ceiling, his bedroom ceiling, he was in bed, of course he was in bed, he was always in bed, never wake up, can't wake up, can't cope, will never be enough, not for him, sleep, sleep, eyes closed, CLOSED, stayed closed, not hard, sleep, yes, he could sleep, he had mastered sleep.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling. Felt like a memory, but it was live. How could he tell? His brain was just recreating what he thought the ceiling looked like. A mixture of memories and input, probably. Not real. But he wasn't 90. Not yet. Might never be. He hadn't jumped forward in time. He was just here, 26, no future, no present, only the past.
He tried to remember the past but it seemed to be happening to someone else when he did.
So just this then. Just the ceiling, the bed, his sore body...and a total feeling of unreality. He let it wash over him. He slept, he was awake, it didn't matter. He just wasn't. For a while.
Then he had to pee.
