| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
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do you often walk away when falsely accused? do things often come up that prevent you from achieving the things you really desire? do you find yourself curled up in a ball on the floor of the room you rent from old lady McBride, weeping and wishing the rest of the world was dead? perhaps the problem is within? perhaps you just can't cut life in the real world, and internally you must remove the fault from yourself and place it instead on the actions of others? do you dream of murder? is there a place you go where you bury their bones? do you eat the flesh of animals, or just kill them to satisfy _him_. that other you, the one buried in the pretext of your subconscious. no, you do not even believe in the subconscious, but rather in _HIM_. he talks to you, whispers in your ear. really IN your ear, from the inside. he speaks to you in your dreams and when your mind wanders. you find yourself in a daze often? fingers grasping the steering wheel of your geo metro, knuckles white, the same phrases running circles, looping and twisting on a roller coaster through your most precious lobes. you snap forward suddenly, seconds before slamming into a lexus SUV or a pimple faced kid delivering pizzas in his father's late 80's toyota pickup. you wonder how long you haven't been breathing. you wonder why you missed your exit. but he's sitting there. his knees bunched up below his chin because he is so large. crunched and packaged into passenger seat of your metro. he puts his right ear on his knees and smiles at you. your subconscious, if you believed in such psychobabble. _Him_. you hear him giggle. you hear his hooves' muted click as his taps them on the rubber floormat. you stare straight ahead, wishing he'd climb back into your head. fill the void he left, yes, but at the same time remove this physical manifestation that you know can rip ribbons of flesh from your body. you picture him consuming your corpse. becoming you. taking over your dreary life where you left off. his breath is hot and moist and, somehow, green on the side of your neck. you can feel his stare, you can see foggy glimpses through his eyes, you can taste your cheek as his pointed tongue licks you. you thread your metro through four lanes of traffic, taking the first exit that appears. you run a stopsign and bump up onto the curb, over the planted flowerbeds and come to the stop in front of the Exxon snack shop. you clamber out of your vehicle, burst through the doors, slam into a display of chips and gum and candy. the cashier stares at you. you glance out at your car, he's gone. back at the cashier. _He_ slips his clawed hand around the cashier's neck. _He_ slips his pointed tongue into the cahsier's ear. Into the cashier's head. _He_ commands you, echos in your skull, forces you to raise the pistol and fire. one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. your last seven bullets. _He's_ back in your head again. back in his void home. you stumble back to your geo metro, slide behind the wheel, drive off. you know you're invisible. you know you're beyond detection. _He_ arranges everything so perfect. _He_ wants you to live in the horror of your deeds. yeah, i think we've all had days like that. you'll get over it. |
And the scenerio, including the Geo Metro, fits, but instead of killing, MY voice commands me to open my rain coat wide for the store clerk. PEEK-A-BOO! |
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i know a place. |
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That place'll get your rocks off your rocker. Try the dual region shock therapy -- therapeutic for mind and libido. |
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