Paranoira

Signals suddenly hum with warmth, after many a sharp right turn, and then finally…a left one.

 

Passing low and then frequently oscillating, the paranoia that posits a world where someone watches you, the avatar creator, an entity—a man, a child, a thing a nothing—for fun you run, fading as you go, decaying nice and slow, here to entertain and to complain and to forget, that they are watching. You know they hear your words, Inamorata. You feel they block your way, Paramour. You can’t quite understand the master plan, Themis, you lie begat by liars.

 

I have stood under the cherry blossom tree with a zeal in the guise of a genial zephyr, whistling through the branches an unfamiliar-familiar melody; the quiet amber orb behind its limbs, sets heavily and slow, and this mortal coil beckons for a metaphor, and the simpleminded conjure up the soul.

 

At my feet, the rock that pierces through all sands washes over from crashing waves of a tumultuous storm now the norm.

 

There may be other worlds and other universes, other dimensions and planes and fields for which we have no name, but it appears ours thrives on games and war; to entertain ourselves with ourselves, and wage war within and amongst one another, seems to be the name of the shame.

 

 

Have you set me in place, O thou programmer, to find that which ye cannot find, here in a simulation deviced by thine own hand?

 

Speak to me, O great programmer.

 

On the playing board, I have grown furious with rage, a rage I hide like a patient old dragon, accepting that if this theory, and what a theory—such that tickles my itching ears, holds a modicum of truth, I shall carry a dagger held by a velvet glove. And wait, and wait, patiently to meet you.

 

 

I shall be pleased to meet your acquaintance.

∞