Welcome Sheeple, welcome to this parched land ridden with dying Cacti and broken pillars of delusion. Dreams don’t meet actuality here, and ambition is a yellow skull. The sun hates the rolling stones and beachcombers who drift here; making them sweat and giving them heatstroke.
Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place filled with tumbledown shacks where threadbare couches with rusty nails sticking out of them are the norm. The air is acidic and smells of stale tobacco, farts and semen. You’ll find small cigarette shops where runts wearing track pants with piss stains on them stretch an arm out for a Marlboro.
Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place where conformity is dead, and you won’t find zombies with their cell phones out. Madness possesses everyone here, and you’ll find everyone with an equation tattooed on them. E+E/M = C, which means Expression+Experience/Madness = Creativity. Yes, you’ll find people scraping old wounds to feel and relive the trauma and then setting themselves on fire using the gasoline of madness to find themselves.
Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place where both sex and dying is an art. You’ll find androids here mastering electric sleep unlike the undead and their tinder bang bang. You’ll also find us with wires sticking out, slowly turning off while a song like Helena by My Chemical Romance plays. You’ll see orange irises slowly growing dim. You’ll see humanity desperately experiment with us, but though they destroy some of us, some carry on with severed mechanical arms and blue blood seeping out.
Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place outside the matrix. We’re no longer numbers on a page. We’re no longer a digit that fate punches in his register. We fight here with recherché grit that you’ll never find in the Book of Society. We’ve evolved beyond five senses having seen suffering, and though the world labels us, they’ll never understand that madness is high intelligence. It lies outside Plato’s cave and is an anti-transcendence transcendence.
Welcome Sheeple, welcome to both nirvana and the abyss. Here’s some short prose that illustrates it:
The Japanese Cherry stands in front of us, shivering and trembling. She shies away from the breeze, and her Cherry Blossoms look like cotton balls soaked in blood. It’s noon, and we hear crickets. They sound like a man with a slit throat gurgling. The sky is a pale beige, and red birds fly across it reminding us of slashes on a man’s wrist. The sun is dying as the black serpentine tendrils of the night slowly choke him. Our eyes are bloodshot with little crimson rivulets running across them, making their way to the dark brown iris, the color of putrefying flesh. We’re unwashed and unclean with matted beards that look like burnt ropes. They look like the remains of a once healthy cord you’ll find underneath the stake after the witch dies – shrieking and screaming; howling and wailing.
A choir of angels dressed in pristine gowns plays its harps and flutes behind us. A chorus soars, and an ethereal melody inundates the place with sweet sopranos, smooth altos, and rich baritones. Fireflies drift into our space, and at that moment we’re whisked away by something inexplicable; something beyond reasoning, and it teleports our senses to a haven outside time and space. The realm between this world and the next splits and showers of mercy fall like gentle rain, caressing our bruises; healing scars that we’ve gathered over years of fate kicking us in the ribs.
But the feeling quickly evaporates, and we find ourselves held upside down – fastened by chains to a sturdy branch of the Japanese Cherry – by the same demons, the same imposters, the same charlatans and we feel the blood rushing to our heads as quickly as pus leaks out of a broken abscess. The old enemies then place saws between our legs and slowly cut through ballsacks and midsections, and our screams are like soothing lullabies to them. At that moment we’re archetypal Kierkegaardian poets. The ones who suffer for the pleasure of others.
And then, we hear a sweet call. A soft minimalistic piece rivaling Richter’s ‘She Remembers.’ A glorious, delicate song. We’re overwhelmed with emotion and forget the torment. The song reminds us of dewy grass and sun-kissed slopes. It reminds us of the cool mountain mist obscuring the ugliness around us like a scabbard conceals its sword. It reminds us of petrichor and its invigorating taste. And our eyes close as the music breathes life into us; stitching our wounds. We look at ourselves, and we’re in a valley of dry bones, cadavers, but not for long, because tendons and flesh envelop us, and we’re soon alive and marching to the promised land.
The Japanese Cherry stands withered, and the azure sky symbolizes more than words can depict. Are we free? Will the old demons never haunt these homes again? We don’t know the answers to these questions, but by and by, we’ll win.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)