Monkey.

Send them in. Send in the army of headless reptilian parasites. Allow them to suck the life out of every colorful entity within the room. Allow them to reap personal benefits in storms of egocentric winds off every fabric of life that breathes inside. Watch them strangle anything green and anything that grew from seeds. Witness the destruction of the psychedelically infused walls that keep the room linear, and shiver as the cold wind blows in from outside. Send them in right now. With scarred hands and eviscerated livers, they will smile coldly when they see it all falling down in front of their own lifeless eyes, and they will cackle with malicious glee when millions of generations of thoughts, images and words will all condense into a clot of nothingness.

But a TV screen shimmers outside their line of sight, but within the same room. It is now playing a slow, sad melancholy tune; a tune that cries of lost love. Something the creatures within the room will never be able to comprehend. They are unaware, as they stand in a circle, with their hunched backs, laughing away at the sight of nothingness around them - the reality of chaos. They are unaware as their backs are turned away from the television that is about to explode into a million little pieces.

A deafening explosion, and a whole ten minute bout of silence later, all that is left in the room is chaos.

Chaos creating chaos creating chaos.




The passage above is an analogy of the simplest truth that mankind always knew and will know till the day it call comes to a gracious end. Well, gracious in terms of the sheer magnitude of chaos that is bound to ensue.
Chaos that leads to chaos. Which leads to chaos, which leads to...chaos.


It is a rather bizarre analogy, but you get the point.

Interstellar Overdrive.

Meet me at the equinox and sing me a lullaby. Put me to sleep at the inner edge of outer space where I can just crawl into a fetal position and watch as the black holes reveal their secrets to me in full blown technicolor. Give me a stringed instrument painted in black that blends with the interstellar darkness, that I can strum as I feel the breeze from a beach that I conjured up with my imagination, blow over my face, smoothening my wrinkles. Take me to your leader, and help me help him with helping me to rise up into cosmic ecstasy, beyond where the sand can dampen my hopes, beyond and above to where only my infancy has let me go to. Drive me somewhere infinitely awe inspiring, where the sheer beauty of the cosmic magnificence around me would overwhelm me so much, I'd be left reeling for eons to come. Triumph over me as I drown in my self loathing verses, pushing myself to a personal breaking point. As a wise old man once said impulsively, it's always beyond your abilities to watch nebulas bloom as the winds of astral knowledge weigh your eyelids down; it is as impossible to achieve as to divulge in your own deep thoughts, unpertrubed by interfering obstacles that would otherwise condemn the pleasant breeze to a harsh blizzard. Just let me feel the warmth for once. Liberate me from this madness.

Thank you for listening.

Let it Rain.

Enraptured by the impregnated black clouds.

Smothered.

Leaning against the rusted railing

Cold.

Feeling the wind wash over her
Cleansing her of all her inhibitions

Feel the rhythm.

She trembles with anticipation.

The Pulsation.

The ashes of the sky goddesses
Are about to soar through the gray skies

Follow me.

In a beautifully long arc
Into the false sense of warmth,

Below, far below.

The extended arms of the miserably lit landmass below.

Sacrifice.

Gazing intensely into the eyes of the coming storm
She channels her frustrations
Into a solitary ray of Feeling

Your freedom.


And loses herself
In the throes of the oncoming thunderclaps
And loses herself


Beautiful hallucination.
*Thunderclap*


In the embrace of the cold droplets of
The tears of the Ones above.


And loses herself
Within herself.

Within.
Within.
Within.


Submerge.
She whispers.
Drown me

Within.

The Only Car.

Inside the fire,
I struggle to speak,

with

Styrofoam cups of whiskey blues,
Smoke left hanging in the air.

Gloomy as it may be
Drive the car I must.

Congested throat,
It's like I swallowed a boat

Dreary eyes and
Faltering feet

I Scamper out of the way to let the feeling pass

Just a little pin prick
But I am sick.

Taut nerves.

Catch a glimpse
Can't catch her eyes.

Keep driving my son.
Keep driving.

The Road To Nowhere.

In my infancy, all I saw was flashes of technicolor strewed across everything that seemed real.
Brilliant arrays of vivid bright light then creeped in to my field of vision, letting me see beyond what the predestined haze of obliterated grayness let me see.

I am going nowhere.

My life is but an intensified chess game between the forces of good and evil; I chose my path solely because the dark auras of social stigma pushed me roughly across the borders of black and white lines of self actualization, into a universe where everything is just a matter of following the herd into the pits of raging fire.

I have ceased to think for myself. Brainwashed I am, by the millions of tiny atoms of media-infested force fields that stray deep into my minds, erasing my ability to conceive for myself.

Stranded I am, on this rock in the middle of a great raging ocean, driven by a furious urge to throw it all away and get swallowed by the depths of blue, never to be seen, never to be remembered again.

All my life has made no sound, except for the bells I hear on odd occasions, noticeably louder each time, signalling the end of our time. It is too late to fight off what has taken a cold grip on my life. It is too late to unburden myself of the chains that hold me down to the ground. I am being led into a void of nothingness.


I speak for the world, dear readers.

We are going nowhere...

See those pigments of indigo on the horizon?

It’s amazing, really, when your talent is appreciated.
My newfound talent, of course, being photography, has become more of an obsession than anything now, and god knows it, it’s paying off.

There’s a moth resting on the terracotta wall. *click*
There’s an old brown brick that’s jutting out on the wall. *click*
There’s a pipe that’s leaking sewage water of the sludgiest kind. *click*
There’s a rusted old candlestick. *click*
There’s a once magnificent building that has lived its life in grandeur and now lies in ruins. *click*
There’s the sky; she looks like she’s about to burst into flames. *click*

I find beauty in ruined figments of the past. Once grand buildings, now lying in dust. Rust. Dirt. Cracks on the wall. Dust. Ancient spider webs. Everything I see, I click a photograph of it my mind’s eye, and make sure I come back to the same spot with my camera and capture it in its entirety. Browns and greys, hues of pale yellow and desaturated red, monochromatic shades of faded light. It’s all a game of chess in my mind now.

To click or not to click.

*click*

I admit, the world is a beautiful place, but there are some things that go unnoticed by many.
Those small, brilliant shards of nature’s big glass of wine. Those are the things I notice.
And someone needs to put them on paper, to say the least. Putting visuals on paper, of course, involves photography.

I take my camera everywhere these days. The night, I must say, is the best time to take photographs. When there’s absolutely no one in sight. When there’s a dark beauty in everything you observe, when the lighting is just perfect to capture the most beautiful visuals ever. Taking walks on deserted alleys after midnight, and clicking away has become a routine activity now, wherever I go.

Might as well put my insomnia to good use eh?

Apocalypse, if you please.

Trying not to close my eyes so soon.
There's a cold breeze streaming from the vents that inscribe the tall and gritty brick walls that imprison me.
As depressing as a bucket filled to the top with carcasses of fish, those dead eyes gazing blankly at the brink of extinction.
The walls are cracking, the lightning shaped dents expanding at a pace the naked eye can not read.
Life, as we know it, is ebbing away from every bare inch of ground under my cold feet.
Gritty old kettles rattle in the lonely shed, clammy nuggets of snow coat the old wooden shed door as it hails as it's never hailed before.
Green and yellow are things of the past, monochromed shades of brown and grey are all I can see.
The ground now quakes, impending surges of a strange aura of dread envelops the surroundings.
What is left of the sun, is a tiny dot of brilliant white light somewhere beyond the endless horizons of empty space.
Now I stand inside the dingy, dully lit toolshed with a pickaxe in my bare arms.
All love is lost. I am the last man standing. A miniscule fibre of flesh on my lower arm I scrape with the pickaxe.
I am the last man standing.
The last.
'Tis too cold.
As I watch the depressing grey skies signal the marching drum beat of impending doom, as I watch our mighty earth being swallowed up by the throats of an unknown force that is hell bent upon destroying Infinity,

I pick up the pickaxe.
And I bring it down upon my skull.
Goodbye Earth.




And THAT is how I imagine the End Of The World to be.

Cheers, folks.