Sad Boys/Free Fall/Currency

Sad boy,

You let the time pass, fruitlessly, hoping that the night can contain your grief. Even the bubbles that come together in the water bath, that grow and shrink and drift apart, to give a metaphor to your despair, soon give in to turbulence, and burst. Don’t look away, you know no one cares. Not even probability, or shampoo companies.

Endless nights engrossed in thoughts. Trains guided by the echo of a powerful intellect. Why is everything so blue? Why does my water now taste of tears? Does solitude nourish the soul or devastate it? Were metaphysics and geometry simply filters, sugar and anesthetics?

The neurons proceed in their dance. At the tip of Freud’s Iceberg, you’re bold as a lion. But, down below, there’s a party going on. We laugh and drink and piss on concepts that used to be encapsulated by words such as “self worth” and “confidence”. We see now that despair is the true reality.

What is purpose? Was it not this lie that was told to you like a mothers love? What is friendship? Isn’t it merely currency, with which we buy security and love and the thought of being wanted? What are dreams and ambitions? Ah, that demon and his brother which make us think that Apollo’s journey is worth it.

Sad boy, reality is not for you. Reality is this Persepolis where those whose bubbles still hold meaning for them convene. You’re a sad boy, because their bubbles may never burst. They may drift apart, but they will never implode.

And now you’re in free fall. A leaf caught in a battle between North Wind and True Wave. A life enclosed by four walls:

  1. Memory
  2. The future
  3. The past
  4. What if





We Begin.
It seems like a desperately random series of events.
A comet is knocked of course by the gravity well of an asteroid.
It crash lands onto a planet in the early stages of formation, all fire and wrath. Organic molecules are released onto the planet.
Macro-molecules become bio-molecules. Temperatures cool. Conditions become reasonable. Evolution starts.
Fast forward a few million years, and life is thriving. Prokarya multiply, spread and conquer. And soon, the atmosphere is all the rage. What is climate?
A few hundred years more, and nature is a beauty now. Evolution is a true artist. Heterotrophs and Autotrophs settle into roles and relationships which spawn survival and perpetuation.
Millions of years more and, what is consciousness? What is language? What is emotion?
This is where it gets interesting.
What is culture? What is War? What is Strife?
In time, the human population thrive on the surface of the earth. Over seven billion human beings in number. Living, loving, fighting, reaping, destroying, and being.
The upright ape has developed a consciousness to the point where self-destructive behavior is as common as productive behavior. Where insanity has devolved into nothing but a point of view. Where art can be as necessary to stability as safety or food.
It’s a sunny day and a young girl in a blue dress sits beneath a tree with an apple in her hand. The gentle breeze shifts the leaves and allows the sunbeams to dance across her face. Her mind is as tranquil as the blue sky. She is at peace.
In time, her mind is disturbed by a thought, just as a bird in flight breaks the blue of the sky, but much more violently. The thought spawns another thought. And another.
And another.
Eventually, the thoughts reach a crescendo and her mind is not the sky, but rather, it’s a violent and stormy sea.
She breathes in and all is calm. It’s easy to seek refuge in the boredom, in the tranquility. She breathes again, taking in the scent of nectar and pollen and serendipity.
She closes her eyes and digs her fingers into the warm earth beneath. She brings a handful closer to her face to observe. Without opening her eyes, she takes in a breathful of the dirt, the earthworms and the life.


What is humanity, she wonders?


My nostrils are dry and my head feels like its about to split open. My nerves struggle to confer with my brain. As a result, I am deprived of the full experience of the pain of my disease. A small victory for me in the midst of this banal life.

My mind cannot linger on minutia though.

I am staring out at the star. A benign red giant. A mother to a very affluent planet.

The planet itself is beautiful. An intelligent species, a superb culture, a staggering progression. But in spite of its beauty, I do not think about the planet.

My thoughts remain on its lone red giant.

And I ponder. Creation, death, evolution, life, reality, programming, destruction, existence? God.


I couldn’t care less about God at this point. After all, what is She? if not another variable in this continuum. This immortality. This endless cycle of space-time. Or should it be life-death?

The red super-giant still has .9 billion years before the big light show.

My thoughts depart from stellar life cycles just moments before I destroy the lone planet.

The next planet orbits a super-massive black hole. This time, I sit down and watch an episode of “I love lucy” as I set the planet to implode.

944 million lives being extinguished in the backdrop of a black and white sitcom.

At first, I was creative. I would erupt volcanoes, fire meteors, unleash deadly viruses, generate civil unrest which would then escalate to carnage.

But later, (or sooner. Time really means nothing to me at this point.) I would just blow the planets up.

This was also fun at first, but ennui just turned BOOM! to BOOM to boom.

The next one was a binary star system. Perhaps my recent reveries had made me sentimental. I got a little creative and generated gravitational imbalances that caused the stars to spiral into each other and explode, destroying the seven planets that needed them for sustenance.

This act of rebellion against routine was pathetic and I felt more mundane after it.

The inhabitants of this universe, this stored information, their intelligences have concluded that the end is near.

They are quite right, but for the wrong reasons.

I don’t blame them. The truth is severely overrated. They are better of in their confusion.

What would they believe? That they were created for a purpose? That existence isn’t void of meaning? That love and loss and despair are aspects of reality? That they have to progress not just as a marker of time but as a marker of hope? That their reality is real?

Ignorance is bliss.

Even in their uncertainty and fear, ignorance is bliss. Their mentality is so dependent on their being right that if alternatives are explored, insanity will follow.

I know the truth however. And it isn’t blissful, or wrathful. Its just truth.

The truth?

Its destiny.

What would they do with the truth? They believe that their “science” is a search for the truth? No. Its simply an indulgence of their own self-importance.

I know the truth however.

The truth that I destroy planets not because I am God, or war, or natural disaster as they would believe.

The truth that this “existence” boils down to a few googol lines of code and that I am simply a computer viruses, deleting sections of the code, sections which end up being interpreted as planets. Deletions which end up being interpreted as explosions.

If they knew the truth, they would be compelled to ask, “Whose hard disk?” But by virtue of experience, I know that question would only lead to this answer, “Whose hard disk?”

Its just destiny, the ignorant will ponder. The knowledgeable would know.

And I would destroy.

BOOM! to BOOM to boom.





The Turning

He sits quietly and sips some tea, under a tree. The earth turns below his feet, the clouds drift by like great white beasts. The sun is in his face.

All is quiet.

Once, the world was his. He was the master of an art which shifted the world and his mastery was sought, long and hard, by those who wished to rule.

With his talent and his tools, he cast the world in red.

He did not care for the reasons for which they came: Love, duty, honor.

Some tried to stand over him, most often they sank to their knees. Of those who came, those in quest of the world made him laugh the most. In so far as there was at least one of such men in the world, he would play his instrument, he would sing his song.

He would paint the sky red.

Oh, they hated him, envied him, loved him, but these emotions of theirs were irrelevant. They all stood pitifully in the shadow of the one true emotion. The one true emotion by which he conquered. The one true emotion by which he held the world.


Whatever else they felt did not matter in so far as, primarily, they feared him. And it was a primal fear too for he was a beast cast in the shape of a man.

It was not so much about his heart as it was about fear.

But, nature took its course. In as much as they feared him, the world still turned, life went on.

Eventually they dreamed of things more proficient in his art than he himself was. Initially such things could only exist in the mind, as foolish dreams and futile imaginations. But once the idea had gripped the mind of man, it was not far from reification.

Nature took its course. He was replaced by devices which people feared much, much more than they feared him. He was replaced by devices which were much, much more easy to control than he was. Nature took its course, he was forgotten.

The world turned, still, and some things were lost in time. He became extant. A relic of the past. An anachronism.

What had once been a glorious existence, had now been reduced to this banal existence. He was a man debased. When once he killed humans, he now killed time.

So now he merely exists. Spending his time sipping tea, with the sun in his face. Watching the slow march of clouds.

After all, what else is a warlord to do in peacetime?

The Darkness Calls…

Its irony.
The powerful man.
A man in possession of power lacks the will to use it. Or rather he has the will but fails to let his intellect guide it, and would much rather be ruled by his emotions.
This is especially bad, for he is a wreck, fluctuating emotions like electrical discharges in a lightning storm.
His worst fear is failure. He reeks of it. It latches on, sucks out all positive emotions and leaves him with nothing but negativity. This man, he reeks of failure. He is a cold and bitter man.
The powerless man.
The powerless man has vision, the powerless man has insight, the powerless man has intellect. The powerless man has pride. No, to say he has pride is to seriously underestimate his relationship with that state. He is pride. Filling himself with it until he becomes hubris in a meatsack.
They meet. It is raining when they meet.
On the side of the powerless man, it rains frustration. On the side of the powerful man, it rains failure. On both sides it rains pride.
So they walk past each other like nothing. And they leave the darkness to bear their dark emotions.
And the darkness? It could care less.
The thunder rumbles. The sky lights up.
The darkness could care less.


I sit across from her. As she consumes the food on her plate, I consume her beauty with my eyes.
John fled from me, trying to hide. But the blood trail from the wound I had created made his efforts futile.
The maggots entered the wound, wasting no time in reproducing and using their fleshy nest to fuel their growth. Life was born in the wound that had killed the giant being.
She couldn’t swim. As the air abandoned her, the ocean claimed her as its own. A cold embrace. Beauty frozen in water. Dead on the rocks.
It run through the forest, chasing after its prey. This was survival. This was life. It was strong, it was fast. It won. Gripping unto the throat of its prey to squeeze out its life. This was survival. This was life. Midnight was suddenly not. The sky lit up with a fire red. Primal fear. Fire rained. This was not.

The End-XIV

In the end a place which had once been teeming with life, a place which had been an explosion of creativity and imagination and conquest had degenerated into something less than a graveyard.
Eons passed. Worlds spun. Things died. The universe expanded.
The entire history of the Hkasha-Liinga was lost in time.
Destroyed by the seed of a race long gone from the universe.
Nothing remained of their home-world now. Their star system remained unoccupied. They fourth moon was a dead land.
Their fourth moon. A place they had left untouched. A contingency that failed them at the final moment. The place where the last of their species blinked out of existence. A dark, desolate world. It is abandoned. All is silence. Nothing moves.
But, in a remote corner of the moon, life explodes.
A flower blooms.

The End.