Prologue: You can never know how long time will take.

I sit here wondering, wandering: Things don’t always have to be as they seem. Life is subject to each of our individual interpretations. So, why are there so few of us who dream? Misled to be narrow-minded, to hold tradition, to unquestionably respect the authority, things are shoved down our throats when we don’t even understand them. And as blind children we bow our heads and follow, because that’s what we're told to do. Behaving accordingly becomes all we know, programmed and conditioned for The Real World.

It isn’t until you begin to learn things for yourself that you can finally see; that you can finally peer through your own damned crusted eyes that have shielded your mind for years... The freedom to familiarize yourself with all of the beauty, all of the agony in the world; the pure balance of life, is within you. In the end, I've discovered that pain begets bliss: Without it, how could one know such painless happiness, without a comparison lacking thereof?

But you people don’t want to think for yourselves. Ha! It's easier to just let someone else do it for you. This unfortunate Earth has become consumed by an endless, delusional set of priorities. Money, faith, fame, fortune... These pathetic ideas have been and will continue to be encouraged, almost enforced, as if it were normal to constantly strive for perfection, to be the best! Our natural tendencies to explore, and create, and to envision happiness, have nearly dissipated.

Social control, in all shapes and forms, is essentially used in the same fashion; targeting morality, conforming and contorting the human mind until self-identity falls inevitably from the frying pan into the fire. Swarming, pestering, the notion of eternity lingers amongst our thoughts. It seems that so few of us can take that step backward and focus, realizing that, ultimately, nothing we did when we were alive will matter when we're dead, when no one remembers us. You can only hope to influence the world in ways that can be carried on through time.

We are all part of an elaborate bundle of dandelions, blown away and floating about the wildering fields of the universe; colliding, changing, only to fall to the ground in a restful sweep; only to eternally await a stirring force to wake us, so that we may once again take into space. Of course, we can never know what will happen until it’s done, until our brains convert present into past, reality into memory, as if it were happening right before our eyes...

So how do you know if things go according to plan? Is there any plan at all, or is everything just happening as time goes by--is it all just history making itself? Life in itself is much like a test without an answer sheet: Go ahead and make up what’s right or wrong, fact or fiction; eliminate the useless; go back and change your answers; peek at another paper just to get a fucking clue. You can even use the book. You'll never win.

Dream Delta

November 7, 1943
I awoke with a terrible feeling in my gut. I was soaked with sweat, my head swam, my eyes wandered aimlessly through the room. Nothing made sense. I was not in my bed where my mother had tucked me in the night before, oh no... I was in a box. I am in that box right now, and it jingles. It is rattling, as if it is moving down a broken path...
As I began to think about what may have happened, I decided that exploring my box might help me remember. It was so hard to see, I could barely recognize my own hands before me. I tried to venture over to one of the four walls, and now that I was standing, I could see that I was in some sort of train cart. As I shuffled toward the wall, my foot collided with some abandoned object in the straw that was lining the floor... It was this journal and pen.
There are other things written in it before me that I read upon discovering the book. After realizing that it was a harmless bundle of paper, I brought it to the side of the cart, where bits of moonlight shone in through the ventilated wall.
The words... They possessed me in a way that no other piece of writing ever has, or ever will, I feel. Endlessly finite passages of baffling, almost nonsensical words and thoughts, and ideas, filled the pages...
I do not know why I feel so strongly attached to this diary, and I don't know where it came from. There is no name. All of these wonderful writings with no one to claim them... No one but me.

November 8, 1943
Yesterday was my birthday. I am now a fifteen-year-old girl; lost, stolen, sold. What if I have the days wrong, How long have I been in here? I don't remember anything. I'm so scared. Am I dead? The walls keep changing, am I hallucinating? My hunger is building up, my mouth is bleeding from the cracked dryness... What will become of me? I must eat something... The blood that I've swallowed is beginning to rot in my stomach. I feel nauseous, my scalp is on fire, my eyes are sunken in, my fingers are numb, how are they still writing? It isn't me, no, I can't stop the writing it hurts so ba......

November 9, 1943
I think I had a heat stroke yesterday. I may have fallen after the episode, and I know I needed rest. I still need to find food and water. After two days of being in this cart, still I have not explored it. I cannot leave this journal, it calls me, I am grateful.
No one will understand. No one will understand why I died. I will die in here.

November 11, 1943
I found sustenance. I abandoned the book yesterday, after realizing that I was beginning to accept an untimely death.
When I woke up I attempted to start writing and my fingernails began to fall off. That was my epiphany. I ripped the sleeve of my nightgown and wrapped the tips of my fingers and began scouring every nook of that cart. In the very far corner there were crates full of non-perishable goods, water jugs, and even a small linen robe. I thought it quite odd that such things would be in here with me. Then I thought again.
I heard a grunt. An angry, vengeful sound, aching to pounce upon a satisfying victim. My body stiffened, my skin clenched until it stung, my breathing stopped. To the right.
It was chained to the wall. Its eyes were red. It was the blackest thing I'd ever seen. I think it was drooling.
I'm not in that cart anymore. As soon as I comprehended that the thing was chained, I removed myself from its control and manipulation and broke free. I grabbed this journal... I could not leave it behind. I also grabbed some food and water. I can't believe I didn't realize there was an open door on the cart any sooner.

November 13, 1946
I've been traveling non-stop since I left the cart. It was indeed a train cart, among hundreds, heading west. So, I began to head east. Home had to be somewhere in the opposite direction, right? Wrong. I've been walking through this desert for miles, and nothing is here. Nothing but me; me and this journal. The train is long gone now. How stupid was I to come this way? No use in turning around. I'll just keep going. That's all I can do. I'll find something...

November 14, 1943
I just had to get away from that thing. What was it? My mind is finally clear enough to think. It was so demonic, I could feel the hate and pain and anguish that was its existence. Was I drugged? I think I was. Everything is starting to come together... But who would do this to me? Who would take me away from my family?

November 16, 1943
I finally came to a town. There was a stream there, and I buried my face in it upon first sight. After cleaning myself up a bit, I headed downtown to figure out just where I was. I came upon a man who did not seem to move at all. I approached him, and attempted to speak to him, "S-sir? Are you alright?"
Then, suddenly, as if from nowhere, he sprung into life and exclaimed, "Why, of course child! And how are you?"
I was baffled by his instantaneous response. It was as if he'd fallen asleep waiting for me... But I'm in his house now. He never did tell me where we were. He said his name was Mr. Bukowski. He seems like a nice man, but I still fear this could be my last journal entry. Good night.

The rest of the pages were blank.

The Reason

There is something inside of us, all of us, that we cannot easily share with one another. It creates a burst of energy that bestows upon us more happiness than anything ever before. This blinding rareform is purity, it is our soul, and it gives us reason, and being. Above all, when we die and break free of our physical embodiment, leaving it eternally to rot upon the Earth, this entity will foster our euphoric notions and live on. It beckons the epiphany, and in that moment we potentially discover that our darkest thoughts can somehow be channeled. The creation of alternates to hold the value of our own minds' essence is a technique used by our sub-conscience to release the unspoken wisdom that resides deeply tucked away within the folds of our mind. Art is a part of us; it is the raw fragment that endows us with character. It is a vicarious bond, and, sadly, it will never be direct. The thing that is the same in all of us is that we are different from each other.

Greenery

There are eyes watching in the sunlight--be careful of what you grow, if you care to be judged.

Lab Rat

I am prancing across a rolling plain, frolicking gaily and tumbling down its hills and valleys as my breath is filched forth from me. It is calling--what is it--a sound? The lights are burning brightly, shining, piercing the twilit darkness of the midnight, and before I know it I am dehydrated into atoms. Millions of particles of me are flying all about, feeling everything all the time: Suspended in nothing, I rise above the Earth and into this massive illumination.
As I am reassembled to my former self, I begin to feel light-headed… Have I been drugged? I am in a room full of little men in dark cloaks, veiling their faces. One of them comes to lead me to the window. He does not speak, only listening comprehensively to my subconscious glossolalia.
In a split second I see suns, moons, stars; all delicately entwined about each other in an eternal dependency to sustain inertia… And all that I can think is, Is this real? I feel infinite in this moment, and I forget the world that I once thought I knew.
Then, the strange man who led me here interrupts this enigmatic hypnosis, grabbing me by the hand and leading me astray from the intoxicating beauty of which I am enmeshed. Still, I see the imprint of the stars on the blank sheet of my mind. As he lays his open palms before me, I see other people… In his hands? Suddenly I am swallowed by this orb of deceit and guile; drowning in a pool of betrayal, I begin to feel sober again.
I snap back to reality. I look around me--what is it--more people? Not a face that I recognize is seen by my eyes. And there are more… Are they people? They look strange to me, yet, somehow human-like; evolved and twisted, discolored and misshapen. There are other creatures here, too, so oddly proportioned and off-scale. What is happening? I feel my consciousness slipping; the cheese is long gone from my cracker.
I wake up, drenched in sweat--what is it--a dream? The lights flash on and I become numb, a chill tingles down my spine with an anxious agony never before imagined. As I scan the room around me, I find that I am in an agoraphobic prison of what appear to be hospital beds. There are others here, hooked up to machines with strange-looking instruments protruding from their heads… What is this place?
I attempt to raise myself up--what is it--restraints? I am held down by an undetectable force; confusion once again beckons over me, and I begin to whimper a shocking pitch of purely awesome fear. An alarm begins to ring in my head, and the strange little men come. With a whirl of their fingers I am hushed, controlled, annihilated--what is it--a spell?
Obey. I hear it in my mind…
Obey. I feel it in my soul…
OBEY. I say it aloud… “Obey.” Once again, I am swept into a faint blur.
I awaken--what is it--am I alive? Perhaps, but I am not really living. I attempt to identify where I am again, but nothing makes sense. The room is too bright, and none of these shapes are discernable.
Earthling. Why is it awake? It goes to sleep, now. It does not feel pain if it is not awake. It does not know if it is not awake. It goes to sleep. IT GOES TO SLEEP, NOW, EARTHLING. IT DOES NOT RESIST THE MASTER. It does not resist the master, Earthling. It goes to sleep…
“I… I cannot…” I attempt to speak, but no more words come.
Obey.
“No… No, please… No…” I begin to weep, and the toxic tears burn the perfectly pervious membrane of my waning sanity, and then I hear--what is it--a power drill?
Obey.
As my eyes finally adjust to the blinding illumination of the room, I see that I am again belittled by that unimaginable force, gawking my puny exertions to break free of this putrid entrapment.
OBEY.
I unleash a bellowing screech as the inescapable pressure of the drill breaks through the skin, the skull, the brain. My brain. The hot, sticky wetness of my own matter spills out over the crest of my head, down my neck, dripping onto the floor. Drip, drip, drip.
The sound of the drill ceases, and the affliction begins to weaken. The waves crash into my ears like daggers, and an exalting rush of nothingness fills me up; death reaches out with his dark, slender fingers, his nails pricking at the fringes of my essence…
But, no. Death could not take me; he could not free me from this dreadfully sickening slavery, for I was revived as I neared the end that I had so welcomed.
…I hear scraping--what is it--what is it? It is so hard to think. I now know nothing but the pain I endure.
I want to go home. I just want to go home… These thoughts repeatedly flicker through my mind as consciousness sways in and out.
It cannot leave. It cannot get out. It will never get out. It is mine. MINE. It was given to me by the master. It does not have a home. It is mine. My Earthling. Mine…
My thoughts feel naked and exposed, helplessly molested by this cruelly corrupt invasion. A deep cloud fogs my notions and my mind goes blank.
Yes, Earthling. It sleeps. It sleeps…
Slowly, I begin to awaken, yet again, Where am I? I must get out…
I look around--I am back in the bed, along with the others. Slaves. Then I remember: They did something to my brain… But what? I no longer seem to care. Death is all that I care about. The sweet escape. The enticing loss of feeling sweeping over me with pure, exasperating relief.
I bite my tongue. The rushing rapids of crimson flow out and my head begins to sink. The invasive machines probing my body begin to sound the alarm, and I begin to feel free. The sweet relief is a must. The lights turn off, the sounds drown out, the irony taste of my own blood leaves me… Forever.
And here and now, I sail out into a dream--what is it--an ocean? On a boat I am, with nothing about me but the blazing Sun, wrapping me in its happy warmth, and the cool sea green... My favorite color; my favorite place.
I look down to see that my legs have grown together, and my feet into fins, glistening with a slippery slime clinging to newborn scales. I dive down into the depths of the waters; my heart, my home, my dream. I plunge deeper and deeper, propelling myself into a delicious sense of knowing. The further I go, the darker it gets…
I continue to venture downward, spiraling into the labyrinth of my soul, and I begin to see stars--what is it--space? This perception is unnatural, almost uncomfortable, unfamiliar. Am I really seeing this? Is this sight? To call it so would be shallow and ignorant; I am far too deep, now… But what else could it be?
Everything, nothing. Forever, never. Past, present, future… Zero, infinity. Negative, positive, neutral. Me, you, us, them… All one.
I realize that I am no longer breathing, for I no longer remember how. I no longer see, or hear, or taste, or smell, or feel… I only know.