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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2140020-A-Nice-Psychedelic-Moment
Rated: 18+ · Monologue · Dark · #2140020
An homage, or epitaph, to all the so-called Enfants Terribles in the world.
A nice psychedelic moment

Ah, the pure yet sensual qing qing of the doorbell! How in contrast with the cacophony of that vile vulture in a suit knocking on my door and demanding my rent! Come in, come in! Please do come in! My Dada, over yonder, is smoking up the John's Revelation as he's striking me with his belt for my sins while my mother, the voluptuous Baba Yaga, is slicing up the exquisite but self-conscious comb jelly, penetrating its soft transparency and shattering my dreams of having an innocent, untainted youth. I run out of the house and into the vacant, sunset streets like the shadowy girl in De Chirico's mysterious and melancholy painting. Suddenly, a searing flash of light ravages the fabrics of the sky, stirring up the heavens to mirror my violently swirling mind. As the raindrops stream down my face like tears, my heart fills with thoughts of vengeance, a vendetta, towards society. My Third Eye is naked, facing the Colossal Eye of Illuminati, while a dazzling neon rainbow gushes explosively out of its pupil, inundating my senses with intoxicating information. The menacing Mako sharks are flying in the sky, and the docile doves are diving desperately into the soil. The rainbow thoroughly soaks our universe, giving us the invigorating surge that sends us spiraling into a minute black hole to be squeezed like a tangerine trapped in gears. As our grand, almighty God continues on with his brilliant brutality, out pours from the chaos' event horizon a substantiated silvery fluid and the sweet coffee of communism. I rise up again from the mercurial amalgamation of quantum indecisiveness pulsating with suppressed intelligentsia while the Majority, amidst stabbing at my corpse with their twisted spears glistening sanguine dans la nuit plus noir, inhale the aroma of the crimson coffee with relish and are voluntarily ground into it to celebrate their god the Lord of the Lambs. Sensing the acute, Siberian solitude in my heart, I madly try to find a true friend or lover who could hug me despite all the black spines now protruding from my skin. Realizing that I could have none, I go into a tavern to make love to a clam, which opens and reveals a supple but plastic Venus who pouts at me for not enticing her. So angrily I seal her into a magnificent pearl and use it to play some pool against Jack the Giant Killer, my idol, who made me believe I could triumph against all my towering misfortunes. However, he soon transforms into Jack Merridew, and then the satirically smirking Joker, as during his fight against the authorities he, too, has become a monstrosity. Unfortunately, for I could never be as nihilistic as the new Jack, I am forced to protect the obscure things I still care and love, just like that solitary catcher in the rye protecting his dearest Phoebe from all the world's insidious treachery. Perhaps I am saving only myself, or maybe my own Phoebe and the hope of innocence held within her. Feverishly, I aim the pool stick, sending Pluto into the hot golden Venus, the Death into the Deceit of Life. It is a refreshing victory for me as I wake up inside yet another strange Clockwork Orange, the place that I call Home.

So I guess I couldn't escape, after all. I take another glance at my snowy white microdots, the pristine yet devilish particles that brought me a nightmare so beautiful that it is reality. The thin, beak-nosed landlord is still screaming with his screeching voice, his back bent forever with the weight of his sugary words and sycophantic demeanor that lure unsuspecting tenants into dilapidated settlements; my father is still a religious fanatic and abusive sadomasochist, my mother is still the haggard yet sensual prostitute who is frantically trying to escape our unending hunger by taking away and devouring my childhood, and I am still but a teen, a mere shy shadow of a man too fragile, afraid, to face the jagged earth, turning instead to the dismal recesses of self-harm and LSD, which is ironically my only light in this darkness, a world where the strong prey on the weak and meek; where the brainchild of imagination kills its mother; where all the amiable people around me, filled to the brim with trepidation and envy, decide to impale me with their spears of sadism, sacrifice the reticent stranger unto a cross to strengthen their bond of hypocritical unity; where true love or human interaction has vanished, replaced entirely by fades and artificiality; where even my dearest Damian, friend, hero, and mentor, betrays my dreams with a diabolical laughter as the demons dance and shriek for my doom...

But I am done with it all. I no longer hurt, for my heart no longer holds blood. It's quite peculiar, this sensation of existential emptiness; I am comforted by the fact that I will always be alone, forever floating in endless space where nothing can ever touch me anymore. I pick up the gun from under my bed, and load it slowly but deliberately.

Suddenly, my crush stands in front of me, and I hate her for her innocent, seraphic face that instantly disarmed me, her clear eyes that held all the world's depth within, her feathery voice that made my heart flutter, her warm smile that broke me down, her soft hands that cradled mine within, her soothing, flawless body that substituted my mother's distant one, which had never once answered my cries, her ginger embrace that caressed my agonized soul... but most of all, I detest myself for clinging to the memories of the mirage I had rejected. I laugh, absent-mindedly, at the irony of it all; me playing as Dante, a wounded human-like hedgehog, biting beautiful Beatrice's hand and running away from her in pain, him somehow reminded of his own charred mind and darkest past in her sympathetic, loving arms, and her not knowing that he secretly, desperately, wants her to just stay with him, wishing she would see that all his thorns are actually his sadists' hateful spears still skewering through his frame. I curse myself, and cry helplessly on the floor.

Then comes the cold but much needed whisper: I have to do this for her.

Thank you , I whisper back. Soon, my sobs subside, allowing me to steady my hand. I smile wistfully into the mirror ('Or is it Heath Ledger's thin red smile that I carved into my face?'), remove the safety, and aim the gun at my head.

A supernova bursts with a blinding flash of light, then fades away.

I am liberated, at last. A bloodred rose blossoms from my skull, a final, undying vendetta against this callous, cruel world. Just like Narcisso, I die beholding my own reflection. The clocks seem to melt like butter as my body slowly decays into a soup on the floor, leaving an amorphous self-portrait resembling that in La persistència de la memòria as a last nod to Salvador Dali. Nothing else remains. Nice day, everyone. Please don't give me any of your sentiments. They can't help or hurt me now, not anymore.

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