Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #026 – .?

I have daydreams of a far-off place, in the company of people I don’t know. I swear they could be memories or premonitions, and whether they surface by intense nostalgia or a deep yearning, I can never tell. There is an ache in my chest, a void left by a missing past and a promise of the future.

Do you dream of transcendence? Do you dream of a planet whose only landmass is a giant strip of shoreline? Do you dream of lost gardens, of the drowning sun witnessed from a third floor window? Of breathing in the fog-blanketed mountain top air, air like whispers from the mouth of a grieving world, air so thin it stings your lungs, leaving tattoos in the shape of the life we ought to live? Do you dream of silence? Of synchronized heartbeats? Of untamed emotion? Of release and catharsis?

Do you dream of the complex societal machinery where true love is the most potent renewable resource, where the cogs that push humanity further into the unknown are fueled by high-octane unleaded empathy and compassion?

Do you dream that one day, we will take matters into our own hands, and fight tooth and nail for the things we believe in? That one day, all question marks will shed their curls, and all voids in our chests will cement into periods, and we will declare with full confidence that, yes, dreams do come true.

I’ve convinced myself that fantasy is to be found elsewhere, always forgetting that fantasy is not about escaping reality but dwelling excessively within it, where curiosity and wonder build the mundane anew. The tired mind consciously hallucinates, places Instagram filters, augments reality through virtual headsets, forgetting about the fire in our veins and the mythos of our stellar heritage.

And yet the pain remains, a cancer of the soul that refuses to let go, no matter how many times I’ve tried to fill it. How does one cure a black hole? You don’t; space would certainly have less secrets without it.

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[Blogsperiment #2] Earth-Prisoner Anita Papaano

And thus another story begun in the same manner as all stories that have had Anita Papaano as their solitary witness. The hairless earth-prisoner woke to whispers of sunlight roughhousing across her weather-worn curvature caked with eons-old radioactive jet powder. Her vision sharpened yet her head remained planted firmly on her bed of rock. What new story awaits me this time, her thoughts escaped her pores in slow-vibrating frequencies. But this story was one unlike the rest, for long as she waited, her cave entrance staged no shadow play, foregrounded no foreign silhouette.

For the first time since her incubation, she ventured to lift herself off the ground, a feat which she thought too daunting to perform without the sweet cajoling of obsolete magic. Spirits burst forth from her center crevice and extracted mundanity from three-dimensional time-space to unseal long-lost magic, once named many things: Cross-mechanical vibration, Anti-gravity, Willpower.

Making one gargantuan step that made ripples across the Intergalactic Newton’s Cradle, Anita realized that the vines that had once bound her ankles and wrists to the Pillar Supporting the Universe have now been severed and lay limp and unmoving, stretching over hills and moors and abandoned cityscapes.

The sun sped across the horizon like the blade of an electric fan. Anita breathed in alien magic, fresh and new, tingling with scientific ingenuity. The Inter-verse spread out before her, its knolls of stardust, its pools of nonexistence, and somewhere, in other caves littered about The Realms That Be, were other earth-prisoners like her, who lay dormant, unexpectant of the new stories that surround them.

Blogsperiment #1

The ritual begins. I extend my hand and let it hover over a dusty chalice, one that had seen more use in centuries past yet remains a tool used in but the most sparse of frequencies. I draw blood and begin the pact. The droplet falls and its atoms scrape against interdimensional particles, calling upon the mightiest gods of the cosmos: Physics (classical and quantum), Chemistry, General Science, and even Recess Period, for a reaction of eldritch gravity.

The chalice manifests itself as a blank WordPress draft and my blood isn’t a metaphor for anything. I smear oozing red onto my work desktop, tracing lines from unwritten novels onto slimy monitors caked with the ashes of dead gods. (I have 2 of them. The monitors, not the dead gods.) The thought of being godless fills my blood with greed cells, little malicious spirits that hitchhike the entire length of your blood vessels, attacking leukocytes and other such small universes.

I am summoning twin helix gods, deuce-ex machina, from the depths of the CPU. My raging boner guides them home like a cosmic antenna. My coworker is frozen in fear. I reassure him by licking his lips. Mmm. Mmmm. Cherry lip balm. Mango soap scum. Durian eye drops. Ring ring ring, banana phone. J.D. Salinger’s testicles. I spit everything into the chalice. The ingredients are present. I click Publish and the ritual ends. It’s all over. The gods are upon us. I can stop typing now.

(DICK PICKLE)