Above everything else, for the love of my breaking heart - don't leave me alone with these carnivores.
There's not much you can do with synaesthesia. It hits like a hammer when the situation doesn't demand it, and hides amongst the rats when you actually do need it's uppers and downers. But most of the time, it's a steady pulse. Colouring the world, giving sounds a swirling taste and letting you know before hand the vibes of a club on the inside, by just listening to the outside streaming in. Like any good drug, the people who need it, don't have it. The people, who do have it, suffer the sling shot surprises it holds for you.
I was somewhere near the centre of the universe, close to the edge the desert, when a particularly bad spell hit me like Thor nailed Jesus to the cross. It was the computer lab of my University. Not that it was anything special. In fact, it was a boring sodden place. It was lonely when it was full, and pleasant in the wee hours of the morning. But all in all, it was just another place to be in space and time. I might as well have been standing on a corner, pretending I was selling some sweet ass.
This time round, there were a lot of people in the room. Swooping like bats in and out. Colliding like oncoming trains, and risky serious social injury with smiles, glares and the occasional pleasantries. This much I could tolerate. Like all things in life, you get used to it. You begin to, not exactly develop a tolerance for it, but rather a subconscious resistance. The brain rejects the morbidly obese fucker sitting on the same chair for the last two days you see. It cannot handle it. It would crash and burn and would turn in on itself and disappear completely. We all know people with a head like that. They're not junkies. No, junkies might not deal with reality, but they have found a way to fucking not deal with the shit reality throws at us. No, the people who couldn't handle what they saw were those unlucky ones. We seem them everyday. They have that walk; that struts screaming with every step. They don't feel pain. They don't recognize pleasure.
Junkies, at the very least, feel pain. And they recognize that pleasure can remove that pain. But these poor ghosts, on the other hand, well, they struggle with neither. They lost the rope, so there can be no tug of war.
The only way for the human mind to survive the scene of two people necking at each other, slurping and sucking and kissing and toiling in public is to ultimately reject it. It's not rejecting the world, it's rejecting their experience. Have your own for Jesus Hubert's sake.
But there is of course the chance that this is just me. The fact that you might be out to get yourself, although a paranoidish absurdity, is highly possible. Especially if you don't have the right drugs to kill the damn beast.
And so I was writing. I was writing this thing, goddamn it. Ye, fucking gods. It was a rather sordid scene in the computer lab. Some were jolly and laughing, others were punching in and punching out from essays and social networking. Me, personally? I was procrastinating. I got ahead with an essay, so I decided, rather than finish it today, I would do so t'morrow. Rest a bit. Write a note. Write a bit of prose. Give the mind some creative stimulation and let it have a trip on itself.
I don't pay any attention to the voices around me. I allow the syllables and consonants to float through the air, and become gibberish and mere sound to my ears. Their faces are faces. Their lips are mere curves on their globs. Turn your head, drop out and tune into your own style.
Every now and again I would see something that catches my eye. A stir, a familiar face, or just some really ugly looking motherfucker. Not even a mother could love that face; that pignosed, red son of a bitch deserves to work only in radio. And only the late shift. We need to hide this freaks from our vision, especially peripheral vision. Our minds can't handle it. We'd have a mental break down and we'd do something terrifying. Something completely unexpected, even to ourselves. Like whimper. In the middle of a busy freeway. Something insane and unimaginable like that. Or maybe suicide. Suicide, despite what people might tell you, is always an option. Not a great one, but hey, at least it beats wearing pink golf shirts.
I got my real jolt when I saw the Morbidly Obese Guy sleeping. Oh, sure, using his double chin as a pillow wasn't really a sight for sore eyes. No, what fucked me over big time was that he was chewing. The human mind cannot, under any normal circumstances, tolerate or reject this. It was a simple case of; you should not be looking, but it's there, happening before your eyes. And you stare the bastard down. Surreal, life threatening moments like these reaffirm your existence, and your preconceptions of people. No wonder people can be racist and prejudiced; crazy fuckers like these actually exist.
These are the freaks who walk into gas station stores, who then proceed to steal all the canned tuna and crackers. They shoot people like John Lennon. They turn into Richard Nixon. They walk into your room and try and stroke the wall, just because the paint looks like it needs a cuddle. Fuck, of all things, I need to keep my distance from these people, before they shoot me just because they couldn't work through their shit any other way.
And so, I bid thee farewell. At least for tonight. It was a nice experiment, but now, I've got to get out of here. My head can't take anymore. Sensory overload. Mediocre faces. Average pulses. I need an empty street, a dark shadow here and there, and a good book to read. Later all, and stay of the rabbit meat, it takes a strange turn on you.
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