Waking again in this comfortable house, in this comfortable world. The triviality of my existence in a civilized nation, a world to me long since removed of survival, necessity, violence. There seems little need for anything, choice and feigned duty is all most of us know.

What strange genre of life must the third world be, their struggle is the choice of some elite same as ours, sitting as pantheon gods far off and removed from their people. They're without technology, is that our only difference? Ability to act and communicate… does ability orient the world? Luck? Greed? Loneliness? What motivates this fucking place, the good ands the bads of it… and is that morality just mine… or do each have their own way? Is there an optimal way to be?

Is there a god who judges? Or does that fall to me to decide.

To not know is a kind of cage.

How disgusting and corralled we all are.

How little we can see, how little we want to…

I lay in bed, covers half off, staring up past my hand at the dim, sun speckled ceiling, a twilight veil granted by curtains. The sun’s barely touched the horizon. Must be close to 6. Fingers flex, and knuckles crackle into wakefulness within a loose awareness, the hand drawing slow and unknown, imaginary symbols into the space above. A fan whirs gently overhead, the birds outside begin their chants of war. The buzz of traffic has yet to crescendo. This is the closest man can get to peaceful nature in a city. Not today though, I leave this peace to the birds.

Darkness overtakes us once again.

Drifting back to sleep on sultry clouds of satin sheets… I dream of righteous slaughter. Blood to staunch the burning! Blood to drown the tyrants! Funny that delusion, to save the people... Liberation!

Grow up.

These people beg to be mistreated. They need their abuser like a mothers tit, somebody to give them the illusion of a fight, rebels are just kinky broads who need a beating to get off.

They would rather be enslaved. Soft. Weak. Uneducated. Their every act a spiteful waste of resources. I see more good in rats than most mankind. One human of worth for every million? Bit optimistic. Endless drones of mindless filth desecrate the waking world. Slaughter would be merciful to drudge as damned as these.

The tug of empathy, symptom of the virus that is human. My living prison body. It seeks to corrode my impulse to kill, it tricks me to believe they can change. That they can be free. That they aren't what I know them to be.

Fail and be ineffective, refuse awareness, believe it awful chance when things go wrong. Honey, honey, honey… These tenants of humanity are the bricks that lead to hell. We all know you play victim. We all know that you’re sick. But don’t worry, lovely. I can look my evil in the eye.

Look in my eyes

Wanna see how fucked we really are?

…

This calm, bile ridden philosopher, this voice sits perched atop my chest and pins me to the bed. Sometimes I catch his tendrils in my mind. Sometimes I wake up in his game too late… I fear what lie within me when I’m no longer there.

When people are gone, unconscious from drinking or concussed, in coma or even sleep; where do we go? We wake from this death every day but know so little of it. We ponder on our greater death, however… there’s a brief glimpse every rest, for those with minds to know and eyes to see.

Blood runs from my eyes and mouth, steady rivulets of crimson, I smile and none of them notice. I look them in the eye and I see nothing worth keeping alive. Itch… Itch…

Are they even alive under that skin of theirs?

I used to wake in shaking sweats but now I cry in merriment at the horror in my dreams, these worthless corrupt people, no more than screaming gristle shorn from bone. They think they’re oh so human while awake, if so then I must not be. Human. Funny how that’s used as a compliment between the peasants, funny in the sickest way.

Why do I think things like this… to grapple with the world and not take anything for granted? Is it that in order to truly know myself, how I feel, that it requires this level of moral scrutiny?

What does it mean to be good?

A disembodied voice which flickers in from my unconscious and provokes me toward violence, huh? Little devil advocations. How do you know that voice you use to think inside your head is the real you? What if it was implanted by a manipulative band of space pirates with advanced cognitive destabilizing tech while your real self was restrained for several years!?

Joking. Unless? No, a jest. Occam’s razor and whatnot… hehe.

The line between imagination and delusion is often a valley sliced by that very razor, in the end it’s faith and intuition that tells you what’s “real”.

So many assumptions… I wonder if space pirates fit the tone of this discourse; charming.

I’ve awoken in this place from time to time, an impossible glass castle deep under the water. Or is it space outside these windows? Such murky depth may well be space itself. I get up from the table thing and try to wake up in the dream, this place, im not sure as of yet the distinction, if any, between dream and “astral phenomena”; not too sure the difference between dream and real some days to be fair, some real real dreams and some real dreamy wakes.

Intricate panels of clear glass with seams of gold holding back the infinite darkness outside, the gold material is self luminous and I can’t discern an individual light source, the floor is an empty black beneath my feet. In the center of the large, square room in which I awoke, lay a dark stone block resembling an altar raised up several steps from the main floor. I sit perched on the edge of this block, my hands gripping the edge and my feet on the floor, some steps go down on all sides, I have the sense everything here was relevant to my size and wonder if I’m projecting it.

A perfectly fitted environment.

“Are you lost, little one?”

“No.” My voice spoke without me, an impersonal witness to my own actions. “I have been here many times, but you, why are you here? I have never known another in this place.”

The bookshelves across the hall began to luminesce as if an answer, my reason for coming here is always these aspects of novelty.

“It is odd for one to appear within The Chiron and not be known to me.” A little woman dressed amusingly in the semblance of a bell or chime was hovering, fidgeting down the hallway toward my waking table, rather like a hummingbird or dragonfly. Cuter.

“The Chiron? That what you call this place, fairy?

“You’ve come here before and the domain hasn’t introduced itself?” A hint of shock in her voice and tiny face, tiny hands clutching the sides of her bell shaped gown which made her look like a plump white flower bud, a little stamen shock of golden aura for hair which illumined her fragile body. “It isn't just what I call it.”

“I see. May I be on my way to the books now?”

“BOOKS!” She shrieked.

Oh dear this isn't a dream for her is it. I hate residents.

“These are not books! These are-“

I cut her off, “madam. I know what they are.” Her face screwed up all funny. Unrestrained by bones? A huff and puff, a little disgruntled shriek like a child, poof she was gone… little puff of smoke and everything. Watching the flecks of… stuff drifting toward the floor I got up from my perch and transited the hall, walking through her remains I catch the faint scent of fireworks, but primarily flowers.

The hum of gnosis reaches out into the hall from the second room, my fainter senses tickled, but my eyes and ears begot the chanting rhythm of the universe.

This humming bubbling light of growth is blinding, overwhelming, I can’t get close to it. The body I watch goes into the rippling force and I am a witness to the darkness… Not even a mind lingers here with me… Into the deep of sleep.