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she thought she killed me… by dropping the heavy book onto my shortsighted head from the perilous heights of the top bunk, but casually aware that dreams are always more than at first appearing to be, even as they switch and change with relative fluidity… the mercurial incident in question was meant as an accident because of how frustrating a person i can be, but with ironic twist and quite unexpectedly the book went into my skull corner first, with all attempts to revive me a wasted effort on her part as she noticed i was dead finally… though when she awoke, she had revealed more than just the emotions involved in the book-drop, but also gave me the most vivid picture of what had to be visible to me from this distance… i told her not to fret as this was probably the more hassling element of my personality dying, and that these things happen, the person you killed was only a vestigial aspect of me that probably wouldn’t go to a better place otherwise… it would have lingered on like any other type of ghostly apparition, but one confined to the space inside my head, which i would hope to be more labyrinthine in order to confuse and bewilder it before it became a liability on the surface of my humanity… i realized before i woke from my dreams that we are the words as well as the interpreters, but that as we sleep, our consciousness drifts to a more primordial state where we participate in other realities in the waking world… taking a particular stance residing deep within the structure of the aware human being, every part of the human being is aware and alive, and some of us work hard to kill off every contradictory notion that flits through our caved-in perceptions… we are glorified caretakers that abuse our privileges too often to take notice of ourselves, but the mind police are Here too, trying to winch gratuitous gluttony of the beast we have diseased into existence… too little too late, as their too overcautious excuses clutter the headroom needed to get around in this expanding lounge space where the alien meets the animal struggling to make a human resemblance, a human connection so as not to be truly left alone, every performer wants an audience after all… not all of us can give the expected response that our society of standards requires of us, but instead we rebel against the grain of the indoctrination, compelling us to eat the same shit and then to be happy with death when it comes to our dying… the graves are filled with half-eaten swill because we are absorbed into the guts of this physical place, taken in by the idiots mistaken for feeling human beings, when it is this compassion that the day job takes away from us… we manipulate to make the world work for us in maddening endeavors to conquer our own personal weaknesses on our own terms, to order the germs in the right way so as to unlock the vast potential of this chaotic torment that remains, and retain those bacteria that will backup the files to aid us in our mission for knowledge… there is no reason to demand that there be a place to stay, when anywhere will do the same job as a comfortable bed on which to lay your head, and sheltered the upbringing with the tendency to not care for the others in their hot poverty ovens because we are the glorious gods who covet as champions of fictional woes and ailments… we are wrong and we have wronged, but when will it stop?…

Thanks, khet.