“Within a day I will sunder all of my electronic gadgets for failing me, continuously, contemptuously. Freed of their domineering distraction, I will be halfway through my book, which would have been hailed a master piece, when the demons of this universe express their will and my pen breaks and paper disintegrates for no reason. I will then write a freestyle poem, in blood, on my bathroom mirror before the expense of blood kills me. The poem will confuse, startle, enlighten, and terrify the day’s religious and philosophical thinkers. History will mark it as humanity's first 4th dimension, or hyperpoem. I shall be snuggy in my grave, happy to have dropped another distraction & finally gotten out.”
“Now, if I am a child of God, His work, then desecration of the self is the highest insult. Actually, the only one available to me, in that case. Spite is often mistakenly wasted as contempt or dislike. Keeping the same body & soul, just using them to express “I disapprove of you”. Distant is preserved. Spite, properly, is invasive. The literal spit to the face. I don’t dance around like an idiot then at the end dedicate it to my memory of you. To spite, one must welcome in the dark & perverse. Transforming the whole body & soul. Then taking that foul talisman & inserting it directly into the other’s mind. A ruination of past work, current peace, & future hope. To not meld into but become another awkward appendage, which is a strike against their grace, and let the foulness infect them. Transforming them, now, into all those hated things.”
Continuing in the same hum of conversation
“I hate the approach especially, but all of dating. He must be dressed right, be in the right place, & say the exact right thing in a precise right way. Meanwhile, she gets to stand back, giggling, pretending her every bend & twist is a delicate sonnet to be carefully unfolded. Her plain words a gift to this brute, a rainbow All-Path, that could lead to her tender heart. He appeals to this divine judge, asking his worth, that if perhaps she would graciously allow, he could accompany her. She, in turn, invites him to play a game within a maze. And thus madness.”
My cup was empty but I couldn’t break this.
“In my mind I have this construct but that is a poor word for it as it’s not always all physical; corporal. I speak in metaphor and simile, attempting to convey through language’s poor tools the blueprint of this construct. So that you may build it & see or hear or feel or whatever it is that I do. Then all these people respond with a snarl in the literal. Nothing is more frustrating. They have shattered all bridges connecting us, leaving me an island unable to even relate that frustration. They are somehow the mainland. And even when talking in a one-to-one relationship they look around at support, as though phantom encouragement were being piled under them. And I have breached some terrible protocol. What I presented was not a gift but a perverse tapestry depicting the deflowering of God. Why do they morph my intentions? Why distort their vision to see evil?”