Mystery Razor King
I am the darkened angel. And these are my thoughts.
A sharpened clown walks in my mind. Blank face. Not hidden--just no features there. The symbol of the unanswered question: a face without the details to explain it. The clown is my shadow, following me, but only when there is light. The darkness chases him away. Or maybe he simply melds with it. Perhaps he is with me always, only appearing when it suits him. If this is the case, then I think that it is he who controls the light.
Thought flow error.
The clown is a pointed being, sharp. He pierces me, and with each piercing, I seem to bleed, and it will only be a few more piercings before I have no more blood to bleed. I am a finite being, and he appears not to be. I find this curious. It makes me wonder, but I must admit that I don't know where to begin to wonder.
It describes my waking life so far down to each microsecond. The calamity that the clown brings. The calamity that follows. Calamity mated with calamity births only calamity squared--the glitched equation that is life I live.
The clown is an icon, portrayed in shimmerings of symbolism. He is a plague upon me and I know that forsaking him is out of my control. I do not have the power. I cannot forsake him, but instead, he must forsake me. Only then will I be rid of him forever. And when he forsakes me, I know that I will not see him again.
Because the world will have died.
Black Portal Closed
I am the middle without the beginning. And these are my questions.
I drift back to the clown. Back to my lifecircus. Back to calamity. He is just another unknown in my life, but somehow I think that he is a greater unknown than all the others. There is something about him that could possibly lead me to my past. And why not? He seems to know my present and my future. Why shouldn't he know my past too?
It's a black portal to me--a doorway which I cannot find, much less open or step through. It pulses there beyond my knowledge line, laughing at me--laughing at me because it knows that it is closed to me. There are secrets behind it. I found out one already. My child. How did that one pass through? Simple. Calamity Carl has the key. He went through my portal/past and brought a secret into the present. He has power to go along with that ridiculous crown.
He gave me six more secrets. Thinking about them gives me a headache. Should I be scared?
I'm not done with the clown--or should that be he's not done with me? It doesn't matter. I will see him again.
Don't know why I think of him as a clown. Perhaps it was the circus. Perhaps it's his appearance. Maybe his attitude, the way he talks. Or maybe I don't know what the glitch I'm thinking. I do know what I wish though.
I wish I could step through that portal.
Of The Witch
I am the companion of witches. And these are my incantations.
I see circuit infested skin--the blue technology texture, the silver interweaving sliver pattern. It has covered my waking life so far, and it will continue to do so I think. Under normal circumstances, I would be feared for my association with wirewitches. I would be feared almost as much as the wirewitches themselves.
Some would apply this nomenclature to me. It is possibly inaccurate as much as it is possibly correct. Don't know if I'm qualified to even speak on that subject. Friend? I doubt if I even know the meaning of the word. I certainly can't remember ever having any, and my feeble attempts on this side of my waking have so far ended with failure.
I can't pull JACK from my mind though.
I felt the beginnings of something there. I wanted to feel something--caring or emotion or closeness--something. I know I felt it there at times--the beginnings of something deeper than simply the two of us trying to stay alive together. But friendship? Not enough time has passed for that. It would take time and devotion for us to progress from where we've stepped back to. Deep down I know that I want that, but I can't be around her for awhile. What she is disgusts me in a way that I can't describe. I cannot overlook that. I can't forget.
I once said that I would forgive and fight. I said that I would do these things because of what I was. But I did not realize something at that point. I didn't realize that I was foolish in my arrogance. I was arrogant in thinking that I had some knowledge about myself. I thought I knew who I was.
I was wrong.
The Only Option
I am the cornered prey. And these are my panicked ravings.
I realize that JACK and I are very much the same--perhaps in as many ways as we are different. She, along with all wirewitches, is a survivor. She continues. She persists in a world that devotes all its effort into discontinuing people. Survivors are not welcome--and those that do manage to maintain their existence turn around and meddle in the existence of others. Wirewitches are far from immune.
At least creation gave them the tools to defend themselves.
I don't have that type of fortune. Weak. Defenseless. Hopeless? Those three dwell within me--are me, and I am them. I don't know where to go from here. It's as dark here as that portal to my past is. I can't see my hand in front of my face.
I want a friend in here with me. I want to survive. I want somebody to survive with me. I want a wirewitch, glitch it. I want JACK here. She showed me what survival was like. She demonstrated what it took to continue.
But now I can't stand the sight of her. It goes beyond description what I feel--the conflict which stirs up inside. A fetid mixture of longing for companionship and disgust at what she is and who she is and what she does. She is a true survivor--she is one who will continue--she is a humanity thief--a taker--she is not human--she is wirewitch.
And I just can't accept that.
Of The Warlock
I am the uninfected victim. And these are my symptoms.
A witch becomes a warlock as my thoughts turn to the other wirewitch in my life. 2-85 now--the numerical nomenclature, a quantifying of a simple designation. No one but the wirewitches understands what the numbers mean--assuming they have any significance in the first place.
I must admit that I feel something for 2-85. Disgust at his being a wirewitch, but also something else. It's not a friendship feeling--not quite that easy to explain away--not quite that succinct. It's on some lower level. But it's chewing me up inside because I can feel repulsion too, just as I do with JACK. What 2-85 is and what he tried to do to me are against what I am--they are the death of me. Still, my physical attraction is there. Yes, that's it. It's physical. I can reduce it down to that, and it explains so much. Physical--so much chemistry--the biological explanations for loss of control and reason. I can deal with physical attraction. That explains everything. Simple.
It explains the witchkiss? No, the realkiss.
I did that to break his hold on me. I truly did. And it worked. It did break his hold. Any pleasure I felt from what little physical contact I had with him was derived purely from my physical attraction. I can accept that. It makes sense. So easy.
What doesn't make sense to me is pleasure in the midst of repulsion. How can the two coexist? Mutual exclusion is what I would have expected. But my body--I?--wanted that physical contact. I wasn't in control was I? Hard to remember that now. I don't remember feeling a sense of control. I am repulsed by 2-85. He is the second warlock who has attempted to infect me. I am repulsed, glitch it. But something inside me is not. Something inside me is feeling just the opposite of repulsed. I don't know which is in control: me or whatever it is that's causing me to act against my repulsions.
Oh, glitch me, I don't know what the glitch I'm talking about. I don't even make sense to myself anymore.
I am the battleground lover. And these are my heart woundings.
The warlock's arms are around me, can feel them at my back, supporting me, entrapping me, but bringing protection and comfort, can almost feel the wirewitch skin roughness through the material of my skinsuit, bodies radiating warmth, hair stalk dancing off to the side, warlock leans forward with circuit fangs and pathway-ridden teeth, but before there is contact there is something on his lower lip, a technosite, shouldn't be that big, shouldn't be able to see them, they're microscopic, but there it is, and there's another, and another, they're pouring from his mouth now, almost gushing, and they're swarming onto me, onto my skin, under my clothes, eating away the material, and now in my mouth, but I can't get away because the warlock holds me tight, my arms are trapped against his chest, can't wriggle away, and I want to get away, but the technosites choke off my scream, but I like the way the warlock is holding me and even when I vomit, spewing forth black globs of technosite clusters, all I can think about is how he's holding me--
Not going to let that continue. Thoughts and emotions were running out of control, rampant and without direction. No. Don't want that, glitch it. Glitch that warlock. His fault. His blame. Glitch him.
On some level, I can still feel both witchkisses I've received. It's a slight tingling on my lips, something even stranger in my heart, and something purely frightful in my mind. Which one is correct and proper? I don't know. Maybe one. Maybe all. Maybe none. I need somebody to help me sort this out. I doubt if anybody wants the job though.
Then I get a flash. It's strong and clear, and it's all mine.
(a dark place. an alley. a figure in front of me. a kiss given. a kiss received.)
Wait. When did that happen?
The Medusa Complex
I am the cradled weapon. And these are my targetings.
A sleek form, moving and swaying in the rusted halls of my mind. A figure backlit with silver rays so only an outline of body and movements do I see. A figure with a head of serpents, slithering and hissing in all directions, fanged mouths open to bite, to spill poisonous venom into rushing veins. One look and I feel as if I've been turned to stone, but I know it's not real, it's just a picture in my mind, images conjured by my tortured mind.
My mind, that void of glitch.
I recognize Kiiziiziixii's body shape. She's moves with confidence, but more importantly, with purpose. I haven't known her long enough to even justify these ponderings, but my mind is in control, not me, never me. Who is this woman, this modie, this medusa? Medusa? Where did that come from? My mind's symbolism is lost on me. Maybe it's just the hair. Yes, the hair.
She knows something about me. She knows about the mark on my back. She would've told me if that explosion hadn't interrupted us. I might know more about myself if the riots hadn't broken out--the riots that even now rage around me unabated and insane.
She's a fighter. I saw it the way she protected me when we were together. She's a killer. I saw that numerous times. Perhaps she is these things out of necessity, but there is a detached part of her that removes itself when necessary. I remember it now, in her eyes, every time she killed an attacker. A separation. I think it was a self-saving act, as if remaining attached would suck her into whatever it was she feared. I don't know. It's all speculation. But maybe.
Maybe this medusa looked in the mirror once.
My Infected Wound
I am the protector, the slayer. And these are my weapons.
Violence. The Kill.
I've used them, performed them. I removed three Dokks of their lives. They deserved it. I thought so at the time, and that feeling still persists. Although, I'm not sure that I was thinking of anything back in that alley. They would have molested JACK and I if I hadn't acted. That...that Dokk. He...touched me, that festering g'ekk, touched me...there...nobody does that without my permission, shouldn't have done that, and now he's dead. I wanted to protect JACK, and there was all that...staticstaticstatic. Couldn't think, don't think I was thinking. And I punched my fist right through him, felt his insides, ground them up with my fingers, all that blood. How did I do that? I'm not strong enough for that, for violence of that nature, lethal violence. Am I?
Something broke inside me. CRa Ck.
I remember it now. The static like an explosion in my head. All I could think about was killing those Dokks. Protecting JACK and myself, but myself first. I felt it all, and I lived it all, and I had no regrets. I have little even now. Is that right?
My wound is there. Infection is coming.
Perhaps the medusa and I are much the same. Removing ourselves from ourselves when we see ourselves doing what we don't want to see ourselves doing. Is it easier that way, or is it just a self-saving act which justifies us living with ourselves? If we ignore the act, or remove ourselves from it, then perhaps some semblance of harmony can exist--there is less war within us, conflict dissipation. I just don't know the answer to that question. I think I can live with who I am and what I've done--in time. It may take awhile though. I think I need some answers first. I do know that I don't want to encounter any mirrors right now.
You see, I am quite afraid of what would look back at me.
Blasphemy Of Metal
I am the limping prey. And these are my soft pleadings.
The chrome knight stands above me, watching, not calmly, but actively, almost agitated. Something disturbs him, but he hides it down within himself, where others can't see, down there beneath those metal fibers. I would feel them, just to see, just to feel, just for feeling, but I know that the metal is a poison which I could not resist. Humanity is my sickly child, so easily stripped, so easily taken. I'll cradle my child close to me, and it will be safe in my arms.
Unsafe in this world though.
Some do not have the choice. Their humanity is taken from them. 2-85. Others have the choice. They willingly give up what cannot be replaced. Aran. He is a blasphemous construct, a metal doll. More fiber than flesh. It sickens me to think of it--happening to him, to anybody, to me. Stomach rumbles at the thought. I'd rather die.
There is something between us.
I remember it now. I felt it the two times we met. A connection? No, not exactly, but perhaps. He has seen me for who I am, all that I am. He saved my life. I think we have unfinished business, the two of us. I think we will meet again. If nothing else I will seek him out and talk to him. Maybe he has some answers. Doesn't seem to be the talkative type though. Still, I'm not going to give up on that one. Not going to give up on my chrome knight. I saw him in my vision. Him, and one other. If that vision meant anything at all, then the three of us are connected. Didn't recognize the other person though. Glitch it. Probably wasn't real anyway. Why should I assign any meaning to it? Was it the future or the past? It wasn't a memory was it?
I am the irreplaceable exile. And these are my torn voicings.
Pure am I? Holy am I? Undefiled am I?
Depends on what angle one views me from--what filter the viewing is through. Far away, the picture is much less blemished than the image from the lover's close embrace. What I hold inside myself does not always materialize on the outside for others to see. In that sense, purity is only an illusion if what is inside me is not pure. The question remain nonetheless: Is that which is inside me pure?
I'm not qualified so don't ask me.
Pure of flesh maybe. Pure of heart? Maybe. Pure of soul? Maybe not.
Still, I have something which many do not. I have the irreplaceable part of me. JACK lost it. 2-85 lost it. Aran lost it. Somehow I've managed to hold on to it, claw it to myself, keep it alive. It's not something I'll give up without dying first. In that sense, it will always be mine. No one can take it from me without destroying what is me, killing me.
Aran is exactly what I will not be, the very definition of the melded man and machine. The fusing of flesh and fiber. Multiple opposites married in blood and heat, yet cold radiates still.
It's funny when I think about it. I'm holding on to my irreplaceables, yet I'm surrounded, even befriended, by so many who have given theirs up. Normalities surrounding the abnormal. What a glitched world I breathe in.
So who's the freak?
I am the broken egg. And these are my fragments.
What and why am I? Who and for what do I function? With what purpose and to which end do I strive? The questions are up there as they always have been. Just more time to think about them now, let them fester up there in my mind. I know I'm not going to be able to answer them anytime soon. Don't care about that I suppose. But I have to ask them anyway. The asking is all I have right now.
Well, not all. I think I just found some small fragment of the puzzle. It's just a small piece really--at least for now. The child. Inside me. My child.
(so small so unseeable so weak)
I realize that the piece of the puzzle I have has only led me to conclude that the puzzle I'm putting together is actually only one piece of a bigger riddle. It makes the construction of the picture seem just a little more futile with each thought I have about it. Is the puzzle big enough that it isn't worth piecing together? To remain true to myself, I know that I'll try no matter what, but that doesn't invalidate the question. Should I struggle? Should I?
Glitch me. Who the glitch am I talking to?
I am the misdirected nomad. And these are my wanderings.
I've only been alive for three weeks. That's not true really, but three weeks is all I can remember. Such a short time really. Twenty-one days give or take some hours I think. I feel like I was alive before that. I think I was. Maybe not. I could just be fooling myself into believing what I want to be true. I've done it before.
Much has happened in that short amount of time. Too much. Too much for me to deal with. I don't know how anybody could deal with all of this with any sort of coherence. Coherence--now there's something I don't have. So far my life is a jumble of people, conflict, monsters, and pain.
Somewhere in there I got kissed twice, but that's just another part of the jumble isn't it?
Focus? Do I have one? Some part of me knows what that focus is. It's been there since I woke as a newborn in that alley. I've carried it out as almost an afterthought. The concept is simple, although carrying the idea to its completion has proven more difficult that I would have thought.
Nobody ever said life wasn't glitched though.
Of course, only looking back can I see my focus, my destination. But now that I think about it, now that I'm pondering, I realize that it's not really clear at all. It's a focus which is unfocused. My destination is nebulous and vague. That might even make it unreachable. Perhaps I need another focus. Something clearer.
Perhaps one will come to me. But for now I will remain with what I have.
I have become what I was not.
I have been in a dream for twelve days now. At least I think it was a dream. It wasn't reality. It if it was reality, then it was surely a fragile one.
I'm not dreaming anymore.
I remember some things. I remember my thoughts. I remember the images my mind showed me. I remember the feelings I felt. I am feeling them right now.
On the other hand, I also don't remember a few things.
I can't remember eating and I can't remember breathing and I can't remember where I was. I remember feeling safe most of the time, but that's it.
I don't know where I am now. Not in the city though. That's over there, not so close right now. The skyline is twisted and different than what it should be. There are some buildings missing. Pillars of fire and smoke there, glowing in the dark sky. Riots are still happening I suppose. I can see flashes from explosions. Glitch.
But at least I have clothes on so that's a positive. The air is a little cold. Bumps on my bare arms, chilled skin. Glitch JACK and her clothing selection.
I need to get back. Back to what? Now there's a question. I guess I need something familiar right now. I suppress an urge to seek out JACK. No, better be Aran this time. Don't know if I can handle being around JACK or...or 2-85 right now. Not right now.
Guess I'm in for a little walk.
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