Archive for depression

Star Trek ing

Posted in fiction, Weird with tags , , , , , , on May 7, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

The days are not frigid or sweltering; but confined in longing for abstractness. The days have ways of sinking away in colors seen too many times. Shades of the universe are simple and limited. Electro suns are mechanized by corporate worlds for the generation of mass funds. Income slides down the hungry gullet into the mother fiery pit of insanity that is earth. Where still the conquest of the mind isn’t promoted, as old bio-mechanical nation statesmen sniff brandy on their verandas. Caring nothing for the self inflicted shackling of the common man. Greed like black matter splatters across solar divides, connecting all the human conquests with taint. Man has made that which incubated its own existence, with grease and sweat and science; but bliss lays hopelessly away, a spectacle like the stars of an earthly childhood.

Asteroids scatter tastelessly across the black sea. The ocean is endless. When a being leaves the earth and initiates the transformation to living amongst the stars, they morph from a creature of emotion and soil, to a monster of pure stimulation. There’s no conquest for frank, greed although present, is ultimately as meaningless as, say, rage was on earth.

Out of the field of minerals Bison Bob hovers like a moth to the flame of life. (Bison Bob was a nihilist, and in a dashing show of conviction, developed the neural combustor. A sound wave emitter that destroys brain cells massively and then gradually in order to preserve unconsciousness, and simultaneously preserve biological longevity.) The neural combustor warbles Bob’s chins like a pudding jackhammer. He gurgles at frank, pointing playfully at his crotch.

Happiness like a foul liquid pours into the black sucking hole of endless want. Frank holds it fragile, breaking in its essence, flowing away from invisible leaks. He rolls slightly left and rinses in debris; meditating, holding premise star-ward. Pockmarked moon sways to a depressive symphony. A choir pines for times when games were played, social games of give and take. Mental dams that dispersed chaos sociably. A stream of antidepressants uncoils into his brain (pulse strips spider web through ear cartilage); but chemicals can only make secreted mental obstacles shine with a sickly shimmer.

Confined ice sweat, thickly woven polar blankets, trapped in a tissue constructor. Focus runs and screams, but has little endurance struggling against the vastness of the stars. Frank presses a button on his wrist pad, and his depression stabs into space in a hypnotic light show.

“Hello Frank”

“Hello suit”

“You are feeling lonely, and confined to you’re thoughts”

“Yes, suit”

“Would you like to schedule a visit with the traveling mother?”

“I suppose so.”

“Imagine a bark mosaic, seething and foaming, dripping with fresh rain water. A trickling creak gurgles against wet leaves and dirt. The mother seethes and foams for you.” The sound of a forest buzzing in the rain amplifies through his suit.

“Yah.” he sighs.

“Your serotonin levels have approached even and your heart rate is normal. Brain function indicates you will tire of my description, and ultimately recede back into a depressive state. Farewell.”

“Do one thing for me.”

“Yes Frank?”

“Please implant foreign consciousness one hundred twenty three.”

“This will be the last time.”

Walking, fresh growth, cool air, nostrils twitch with pleasure. Sun seeds in the heart. Bounty is everywhere to be had. Soil crunches under a rubber soul. Joints compress, cartilage strains and pulls. Trees, great ancient monoliths, life emulators, soil suckers. Fields of them stretch in chaos, slanting against the wind and rain, the sun prisms through in a sad mist.

A girl, red hair and acne scarred face, sits humming into the woods. She’s love and worry. Death controls all of her features, pushes lust out of her pores. Frank resists rubbing his leg against hers.

A mountain crumbles in the far off lonely distance and sun light rains through the dust storm of her laugh. Her mouth open cry: rain to an aching soul. Slender twig body feels like pain in rough hands. Frank prospers, overwhelmed. She smiles, and emits a sliver of light the likes of which a man could never make with grease or sweat.

Just some more depressing shit for ur pleasure and mine.

Posted in fiction, spiritualism, Weird with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 26, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

All along the white housed lanes of suburbia there ran a chill. Not a winter chill. Or a chill of fear, no, just a shiver that ran up the collective spine. A housewife puking up schnapps in her basement shook while holding herself. A man twitched at his cubicle in the back of a supply depot, feeling too clean in his pressed suit and silk socks. A girl ran along the streets smiling, humming a tune of the summer sun and wind and suddenly quivered with goose pimples.

It was on this day that despair was born, and would become onto itself a whirlwind. It was on this day that despair showed itself to be inherent, like any other day.

A family is mutilated in the Sudan. Machetes whack through glistening jet skin. Open skies of thought funnel into narrow streams of agony. Screams of conquest echo through the still air. Intestines spill through soft twitching fingers onto the sun baked grass of the tundra.

The mother screams a grotesque animal pitch. Blood curls down her cheek and the wind carries it away. She sits amongst the barren corpses of her family, flies buzzing under the sucking light of the sun. Her sight pulls away in blotches of purple and she drops and becomes the dirt.

How it is now. How it will be in the end.

Posted in Life, spiritualism with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 17, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

As I make the transition from childhood to construction. To filling the endless void with squabbles of perspective. I increasingly feel the need to break from invisible bonds. To those who observe with open eyes, these chains may be as plain as the sun. These things that nurture me like umbilical chords.

I have to go. Not just an excursion and then back to the dead winters, sucking comforts. I need to roam. Storms hang. It is out there amongst the sickness and loneliness that I will find ways to resuscitate the lost memories that  build a worldly mind.

Depression is slipping away slowly, giving way to comfort. It scares me, because I have thought that comfort is just rotting away. Yes it is, and  it is simply our nature to rot and wither. To watch minutes and miles role behind forever; but by becoming a connoisseur of personal interactions and cultures (the thickest gravmorocco_bus1y of existence), I know life will blossom into an ecstasy of interest, and whence in the end I go to rest, my interaction with this world will lie behind  like a thousand sensation smeared novels, never to be read by un-endearing eyes. Forever sacred, as beautiful a biological creation as the mangled chaos of the trees or the ocean universe. In that moment with all the doubt inside me screaming in frustration off the energy of my creation, I will be god, and my lonely journey will have passed triumphantly.