Senseful ramblings of an incoherent nature from a delusional schizophrenic (or my views on current events)

Friday, October 20, 2006


The familiar rush of endorphins finally began to course through my veins. I grinned, slightly, and let out a warm, yet subtle laugh. I sat back, closed my eyes and drifted off into a whirly trance.

A few minutes later, or hours, I opened my eyes only to have them not focus properly. I turned my head to the right and closed my eyes again, returning to my whirly trance and laughed once more. The splendor has decreased, but I am still feeling good. Good enough to FUCK. Good enough to laugh.

Hours pass, or minutes. My skin itches and my brow is moist. I somehow lost a sock and my dick is hanging limply outside of my pants. What happened to me? I used to be different. Im good. Im a good person. My back itches. I laugh it off, what other option do I have.

I try to masturbate, but it wont stay hard. Those are the consequences I suppose. That and this damned itching. Ive become a broken record of my own self-loathing. My dick is still in my hands, although Im not away.

Seconds; minutes; hours; they all blend together as if time were standing still. I feel comatose - dead, yet strangely alive, probably from that itch which has become a persistent reminder of my sustainability and in this case, life itself.

What the fuck is my dick doing in my hand?

I need food. I need to feel better, and not just about myself, just in general. I havent eaten in days or weeks. I used to be good about that, when my parents took care of me. That was a different life. I was better, but I am still good.

I put my dick back in my pants, fall off the sofa and reach up to the table to grab my wallet and my keys. I crawl to the door, open it, and crawl down my front stoop. No one is around, that is, no one who can see me. Im Casper to the world, only less friendly, but still good. My brothers just want to haunt. Ive heard echoes say that I only want to fuck. They echo loudly and constantly.

I slither down the street towards my car. Im covered with red and orange wet leaves from head to toe. I have pine needs in my hair and dirt on my face. A pine cone made its way into my partly torn sweatshirt pocket. It belongs there. It has its place.
The door opens and I hurl myself into the seat. Time stands still. The kids playing in the street dont see me. I drive off, not hearing the soft thuds of flesh meeting with pavement from under me. Im still invisible.

The green light from the store sign appears in the distance. It's warm and welcoming. I want to be there, it's where I belong. Ill be there in a blink of an eye. My eyes gently close.

I smell smoke and hear a ringing. People are yelling, others are screaming and Im still invisible in every sense of the word. I will be for each and every second that I survive. The green is gone. I can only feel a flashing blue and red, and the screams.

My neck is hot and wet. My inner thigh is wet also, but every so cold. Everything around me is crunchy. Im in my whirly trance again. Time doesnt exist. I reach for my dick and laugh a soft, bubbly, whirly laugh.

Im good.

Or I was.


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