Missing Sections

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On events such as this, I can draw and outline my heart on my chest. Its borders burn perfectly. I can feel the blood being pumped through it like you’d feel something moving when you put your hand on the hood of a car. I can hear it move just like you would hear the internal mechanisms of a hard disk drive. I can sense it slowly becoming dysfunctional.

Mother sits nonchalantly on her favoured couch, the only couch worth mentioning in her simple version of the world. Her legs are crossed, but without the bitchy attitude most women have; mother is simply attitude-lacking. Her eyes are fixated on the television screen on which people are almost exponentially dying. The exponential decay of virtual reality draws her in.

My phone rings in my room and suddenly I am more than just a mere observer of a Mother who sits lifelessly watching a TV and smoking, puffing nothingness. I walk steadily to my room. I see the phone flashing; I hear it vibrate amidst the books and breadcrumbs on the desk. I read the text-message I just received. Another someone asking for another favour. Another carbon-based creature feigning interest in order to use me as a means to an end.

For some reason, the more the phone rings, the more forsaken I feel. Psychic vampires can suck you dry from a distance.

Experience has taught me to always say and write what is necessary, to avoid misunderstandings and the risk of being misinterpreted. I try to be as simple as possible in a world complicated by the many impeding events, ideas and thoughts that drop descend like fiery arrows from a fifteenth century English army.

I’m in the university library, waiting for that carbon-based creature to enter the study-hall. The people around me look like my Mother. They sicken me.

In the past, I felt a need to explain myself, and so I did. But I failed, miserably. Only then did I entertain myself with the idea of absence, and ever since, I practice absence; I reduce any source of misunderstanding to mere blotches. I bracket these blotches and surgically. like a sown wound, these brackets contain whatever I needed to say but didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t.

She comes. I can’t even remember her name. Behind her, the all conquering and invaluable darkness reminds me of how vague details can be. Most people will prefer to stay in the dark, in virtual reality, than to try and understand. Her high heels tap on the floor, flaunting her vain presence. Her perfume, a hybrid scent of chemicals so dissimilar from natural pheromones that it disturbs me as it infiltrates my nostrils and dwells in them like a dwarf inside its mountain cave.

She touches me and my soul is as limp as ever. She sucks me dry and my will and power become shadows of a thought. For hours I remain in the swoon of this bedazzling psychic vampire. For hours, she asks and I answer succinctly. But as she tries to give closure to her sucking-kiss, lightning flashes outside, illuminating the darkness. In that second of illumination, the magnificent lightning gives a paradoxical reminder. By being so powerful a light amidst the pitch-black darkness, the lightning, at one and the same moment, forced my complete attention to two different things. The lightning in-itself and the darkness which surrounds it. The lightning in-itself blinded me, but this blinding gave me an in-sight of the darkness outside. And now I remember the details.

I open up the sown bracketed laceration and words pour through like a revelation being recited to me by an arch-angel. My heart finds room for its flooding. I wrap a paper as if it were a horn and place it on my lips and I blow through it with my detailed account. The psychic vampire looks at me. She is disturbed, as are all the people around me who resemble my Mother now more than ever. My excess disrupts their trance.

This is all the same. I have been bitten again, I think as the faces stare me down and melt me with their fiery eyes; my Mother’s eyes whip me with their scorn. Two versions of my mother come and drag me and I’m silent now. I bracket the laceration again, like a surgeon. I have been misunderstood and misinterpreted again. I have been persecuted again, and the subsistence will be sustained. The brackets bound the missing sections of my presence. The brackets transform presence into absence, insignificant absence. They close them up like a freshly closed laceration, a soon-to-be scar, endlessly signifying an end, but always, due to its heterogeneous tissue, springing anew.

[Missing Section]

Natural_Scarring_by_ominous90

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