Blind in invertebrate miasma time; I’m losing days like blood, like a
bird that can’t find its footing and stumbles forward in the air.
There’s no time to make plans for the future. It’s not my fault anyway;
I surrendered control to the gatekeeper some time ago, and if
paraphilic philosophy is a sin then I’ll claim the insanity defence.
What use have I of their laws anyway- God knows I’m not following them
where it really matters. God knows that the law is fundamentally alien
anyway, built around some abstract ubermenschen high fashion idyll of
the human being, but I suppose that that’s the only possible option,
seeing as natural law is impossible because we’re aliens, we’re all
aliens, we are all xenomorphs in each others’ eyes. I am not like you.
And what God knows is irrelevant because God is dead too, right?
Whatever; in any case, this world isn’t going to love me for my alien-
its only that cabaret freakshow (that I studied and memorised from the
earthling silo of culture) that wins me attention. And God knows also
that that alien got lost a while back anyway, and because my aquiline
feet couldn’t find solid ground on this hypershot splintered timescape,
I couldn’t turn around to call back to it. So right now I have no
respect, no integrity, and no time. And if I fall asleep here the flock
will move on without me.
and incapacitated with a mouth like a leaky tap; functional,
unimpressive. So while my life and the world goes on in rapid movement
around me, I’m drunk on vault pressure information, drowning in a silo
of it, a silo constantly refilled. The information is colourful like
psychedelics and fascinating like Ebola, and you’re never in far enough
until you’ve had so much that you want to die. At that point, you get
to thinking that every academic discipline is a different lens, in each
of which life exists sort of as a different animal, against a different
colour and landscape. Soon your knowledge is like a kaleidoscope of
useless ideas, fun to play around with like technicolour shotguns but
when inflicted with a leaky tap mouth, they make ugly gifts. That’s why
people think you’re boring. The titanic irony is that this goes against
everything you believe; that ideas are inherently interesting, and that
other people will take the time to examine what you’ve explored. Soon
you’ve become an anachronism, pushed into the wrong time and the wrong
frame of mind, out of touch with what people really live for. It’s more
isolating than any hermit life or any hazardous neurochemical. But as
my alien gatekeeper advises me, at the end of the year, at least you
have your technicolour shotgun ideas to shoot blanks with.
stuck with a broken leg in purgatory, regretting every decision you and
everyone around you made, right back until the day you were born. It’s
with this in mind that the great communal alien mind (the one that
informs your existence) asks you to move forward. Right then, you’re
looking at the infinite and the possible; staring at the superflat
horizon, equalised and made zero by the sum of every action ever made
in all of human history. Exploration is inherently futile because at
this point you’ve forgotten what you like so there’s nowhere to start
and nothing to like; you’ve lost track of basically everything beyond
the fact you are a bipedal mammalian fleshpack with sentient thought.
Following this tangent and rising along a linear gradient into the sky,
you consider the life of a jellyfish; how all jellyfish are made equal,
and how no jellyfish is an alien to any other. All jellyfish pulse to
the rhythm of the communal jellyfish mind, with movement decided by
ocean currents and thoughts made icy pure by brainlessness. This is why
psychonauts say that the ability of the jellyfish to be happy makes it
the biggest alien of them all.