I've survived the San Bernardino transfer. LA, here I come.
I think I'll find a book store first and pick up my Murakami, and then I'll figure out things from there. For the first time in a very long time, I feel good. I feel happy.
It's a comic book. Jesus Christ. Why didn't I see it?
It's a goddamn comic book.
It was on a rack in the book store. At first I was happy. I found my image again. I found my dream! Then it hit me. I'd seen it before. I'd seen it before the dream. Some guy on the bus had a copy, I think, or maybe it was in the station. Christ, I remember now, and it's all so clear. And then I had the dream. I dreamed about the art on the cover.
A circle of machines and the light in the middle. There it was, staring back at me.
IT'S A GODDAMN COMIC BOOK.
Shit. What does that make this? What does that make this whole thing? Is there even a point to this trip? Is there a point to anything?
Don't tell me it was a coincidence. It can't be. There's got to be more to it than that. There's more to life than coincidences. There's more to life than chance and luck and all that shit.
It was bad before, but now it's worse. Overwhelming. It hurt so bad. A jab in the brain with an ice pick. I walked out, and all I could see was light. Not white light. Not my light. This was their light. Everything went blue, first. It lit up like a neon wonderland, and there weren't any people. There wasn't anyone at all. I'm in a ghost town. Then the other colors came. Signal-to-noise too high.
God, my head still hurts. All that light, straight into my eyes. I don't need the corners anymore. I can see straight ahead. I can see when I close my eyes. And it hurts so bad. Even here in the dark. I ran away. I'll run some more.
Damn it. Damn this whole thing.
We're machines, the whole lot of us. That's all. Multiplication and long division. We consume fuel. Pistons pump, and we reproduce. We're all machines. That's what I see. That's all I see. That's what there is beneath tender flesh. Cold, hard machines.
And I can't be one any longer. I can't be here. I can't do this anymore. Nowhere to run. It's too late for that. I want to go home, but I don't have one.
Not here.
Not back there.
Nowhere.
Just me and this silicon soul.
I have to stop. I found something sharp, electric in my bag. Not much, but it will do. It's all I have left. It's my last bit of control. My last breath and last word in my own voice.
I can't do this anymore. I just want it to end. To shut down.
I thought it would be more meaningful when it finally happened. I don't know, a clear purpose or something. Not now. But this is not me trading a bang for a whimper. I just want rest. I want peace and quiet and rest.
This is not a cry for attention.
This is not a desperate plea for help.
This is me letting go.
This is me trying to make some sense out of something that has none.
I wanted to see more. I did. I really did. I wanted to see the light again and find out, once and for all, what was really in it. It doesn't matter now. It was nothing. It was empty. Meaningless. White noise. Just like everything else.
No easy answers. No paved road. No chance of escape. Just forward propulsion until you hit something. That's all there is. No one gets off this world alive.
So here it is. This is the end.
I think I'll find a book store first and pick up my Murakami, and then I'll figure out things from there. For the first time in a very long time, I feel good. I feel happy.
***
It's a comic book. Jesus Christ. Why didn't I see it?
It's a goddamn comic book.
It was on a rack in the book store. At first I was happy. I found my image again. I found my dream! Then it hit me. I'd seen it before. I'd seen it before the dream. Some guy on the bus had a copy, I think, or maybe it was in the station. Christ, I remember now, and it's all so clear. And then I had the dream. I dreamed about the art on the cover.
A circle of machines and the light in the middle. There it was, staring back at me.
IT'S A GODDAMN COMIC BOOK.
Shit. What does that make this? What does that make this whole thing? Is there even a point to this trip? Is there a point to anything?
Don't tell me it was a coincidence. It can't be. There's got to be more to it than that. There's more to life than coincidences. There's more to life than chance and luck and all that shit.
It was bad before, but now it's worse. Overwhelming. It hurt so bad. A jab in the brain with an ice pick. I walked out, and all I could see was light. Not white light. Not my light. This was their light. Everything went blue, first. It lit up like a neon wonderland, and there weren't any people. There wasn't anyone at all. I'm in a ghost town. Then the other colors came. Signal-to-noise too high.
God, my head still hurts. All that light, straight into my eyes. I don't need the corners anymore. I can see straight ahead. I can see when I close my eyes. And it hurts so bad. Even here in the dark. I ran away. I'll run some more.
Damn it. Damn this whole thing.
We're machines, the whole lot of us. That's all. Multiplication and long division. We consume fuel. Pistons pump, and we reproduce. We're all machines. That's what I see. That's all I see. That's what there is beneath tender flesh. Cold, hard machines.
And I can't be one any longer. I can't be here. I can't do this anymore. Nowhere to run. It's too late for that. I want to go home, but I don't have one.
Not here.
Not back there.
Nowhere.
Just me and this silicon soul.
I have to stop. I found something sharp, electric in my bag. Not much, but it will do. It's all I have left. It's my last bit of control. My last breath and last word in my own voice.
I can't do this anymore. I just want it to end. To shut down.
I thought it would be more meaningful when it finally happened. I don't know, a clear purpose or something. Not now. But this is not me trading a bang for a whimper. I just want rest. I want peace and quiet and rest.
This is not a cry for attention.
This is not a desperate plea for help.
This is me letting go.
This is me trying to make some sense out of something that has none.
I wanted to see more. I did. I really did. I wanted to see the light again and find out, once and for all, what was really in it. It doesn't matter now. It was nothing. It was empty. Meaningless. White noise. Just like everything else.
No easy answers. No paved road. No chance of escape. Just forward propulsion until you hit something. That's all there is. No one gets off this world alive.
So here it is. This is the end.
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