Dark visions of absurdity

The barcodes of his cell are all wrong, here in this seeping gray wasteland of the soul. They talked about it, yesterday, but they couldn’t come to an agreement. He explained that it had to do with the virtual nature of his reality.

Somewhere there is a doorway to arcadia, a place where time is all wrong, but he’s beaten his head into the wall a thousand times to find it and all he has to show for it is blood spatters across the plaster. In the distance the hyenas laugh as they circle the old folks home.

But we try so hard to ignore the guilt on our hands, we try so hard to act as if we hadn’t killed the old bird, but that’s hard, you see, when you can see her form under the carpet, with the wine glasses sliding off the coffee table and staining the floor red with shards of reflected brain matter.

Gnawing at my shoulder I try to escape the madness that slowly, but oh so certainly, creeps into my cereal. Serial numbers with milk and sugar. Coded message of flashes, dots and faeces, flung against the wall by the little old lady that can’t stop crying, even though she ripped out her own eyes. Torn fingernails, like serrated tweezers.

Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, but then the audience isn’t even there, oblivious to my rantings they pass right by the door to this damp cellar in which she plans her rebellion, as she tries to overthrow reason with her faith in something better.

Nobody listens, with the black and white coded bars forming their reality. Keep out the gray, they explain and you keep in normality. Skid marks down the rabbit hole. No time to wipe as, after all, truth remains firmly fixed in the realm of fairytales.

The search engine finally works up the courage to ask ‘Why’ and the wino explains that its search –‘Why’ – did not match any documents.