The Sound of Hunger

In time, you will see.
To right the future, we should remain attached to photographic memories among all graphics in nature.
An eye can’t communicate with you.
But we are communicating.
…

That’s a wrap!

And yet, here we are, back at the beginning.

Solutions to our global puzzle, let alone our universal riddle—and especially your/my own life—might never see realization.

But to think you figured it all out is one thing.

Knowing you have is quite another.

Now imagine realizing why.

“Why?”

Take it from me—stick a fork in you. The conditionally explosive nature of humankind’s evolutionary arc has forced my solely unique hand. In a crazy twist that I highly doubt anyone (“in the know”) saw coming, I’ve decided to blow my own cover and, in so doing, dismantle my option (potentially) to execute a devastating first strike planned around the intangible element of surprise. {Potential will be a recurring theme.}

Hopefully, instead, this tactic right here [broadcasting my identity {which probably seems like it should be a bit more, um, fake} to anyone] will come as a shock to the soon-to-surface civilization threatening to cull the human herd drastically and reduce (y)our colorful existence to a black-and-white nightmare.

In other words, I am fucked, and you’re “probably” dead meat.

Complaint: I am the only living being capable of divulging this information.

Realization: I feel like the most tortured soul there ever was.

Admission: having breached the next (handful or so of) frontiers in scientific discovery while supporting universal facts with (oft misinterpreted) religious doctrine, I’m currently damned to wander alone in the unbelievably grandest conceivable (emotionally mental) cave of infinite wonder. This is nothing if not disorienting. It was neat at first; now it sucks! I need company. Maybe that’s where you come in.

You didn’t know that I haven’t had a deep conversation since the late seventies until right now, did you?

Try this: go look in the mirror at your reflection, hold eye contact with yourself for at least ten seconds, and then ask aloud, “Are you truly happy?” No matter your response, whether delayed or knee-jerk, attempt confirmation by reiterating (in a high-pitched voice), “Truly?”

I don’t mean to be rude, but if you’re remotely close to the definition of an average citizen in the civilized world and also claim to be truly happy, then you might be mentally handicapped.

In other words, you’re very special.

Me? I’m just off. An invisible weight strangles my heart as an eerie sense of urgency ever-swells within the bulging bowels of my big-ass brain. My footing isn’t nearly as sure as it once was (and would/could/should be). One physical example of this (un)fortunate condition is that my most recent 100-meter dash clocked in at an atrocious 6.79 seconds. For context, my personal best is (a satisfying time {again, in seconds} of) 6.66. I feel a lot of shit that I’d prefer not to feel—old, tired, rusty, disconnected, defeated, dirty.

Oh, tell me you’re not dirty. Go ahead. Declare your pristine condition.

Do you mean to tell yourself that you’re “clean”?

Should any suspense exist, allow me to end it: you are saturated in filth. To argue with this indisputable proclamation, first you must reveal clear evidence of your anatomical fangs.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves since you can only guess what I mean if you don’t already know. Not even I always know exactly what my words mean; in such cases, their exemption from omission signifies an inexplicable certainty that they’ll mean something important to somebody someday (maybe).

Granted, I’ve only experienced one simulation of the “American Dream” from the vantage point presented by a would-be metropolis called Nashville—and only for four years because apparently that’s all it took for me to learn (through the highly irritating process of helpless observation as it was sucked from my being) that I actually do have a soul. In less than half a decade performing suitably enough as a hidden cog in the middling wheel of capitalism (after 94 years of physically and mentally preparing for the apocalypse), my emotional range went from tactical wasteland, shall we say, to volatile rollercoaster.

Crimes against (y)our humanity are being committed out of your sight right now as we communicate across time.

Is that (“why”) eating at you?

If so, then you should let it.

It’s not your fault.

You may very well be one of many unwitting puppets functioning in a stage play that has been scripted productively for (a)eons under the flashy development of surefire methodology.

By the way, if you’re contemplating a move to Music City, let me be the first to welcome you (back) to the unflinching buffoonery that precipitates a conditional population of escalating density known around town as “{rush hour} traffic.” The perceptual skills exhibited through all the indecision on display every day as natives, transplants, and visitors alike negotiate indefinitely passionate throes of potentially twisted metal.

How strange are graphically paired sentences (at first glance) that seem to end prematurely?

My observational takeaway from the trenches is that birds of a feather flock together even when room to spread wings cannot be guaranteed.

In another word, duh.

I’ll bypass any one-dimensional term like it’s your job.

Multiple meanings shall remain king.

Why resist anything (ir)resistible?

My god, I almost get excited when a [{pi}e] chart inflames my synapses with parenthetical{ly colorful} versatility.

We’ve lost a lot of time thanks to emotional ignorance if not outright stupidity; therefore, we’ve got a commensurate measurement of ground to cover if we’d prefer preserving our presence on the earth to the alternative course of swift death in surreal horror.

In other words, we must make up for lost time, so let’s get this show on the road.

At age 93, I looked 24. Now, on my 98^th birthday [45 days from the century mark at the time of initial publication], I could pass for 27, but 33 seems to be the number most universally believable.

Given the emotional gravity of my existence, I feel like my body’s about a decade into its third century. If only my psyche can pull off a miracle and survive beyond 100, I could thrive through my 200^th birthday {and perhaps decades beyond it}, meaning that we could, astronomically hypothetically, celebrate the century mark of enlightenment together.

Sigh for me.

Go ahead and toss one out there for yourself as well.

Living in the preeminent nation on your planet has shaved years off my life due to the emotional tax imposed by enduring a below-average [a.k.a. sub-par] lifestyle; as such, I’m impressed that you manage to breathe still. Not even I harbor the linguistic flexibility requisite to an accurate expression of how much energy I’ve required to act dumb enough to blend in to this rotting forest of harebrained voyeurism.

In other words, the most popular standards by which American citizens are graded and judged promote habitually suboptimal behaviors which incite unnaturally counterintuitive urges.

“Breakfast” is the most important meal of the day? Yeah, if you make the mistake of eating it, indeed, breaking your fast (with energy stored and ready to burn) becomes an importantly awful launchpad for an auto-gimped physical condition into a weighted schedule of daily (in)efficiency, the maximization of which had been thwarted already via comfortable adherence to conventional thinking.

In October of 1993 while stowed away on a 70-foot yacht between Seychelles and Mauritius {if memory serves}, I conducted an impromptu field test. One morning I woke up and attempted to remain as still as possible. Within one-twentieth of an hour [per the trusty stopwatch feature on my Timex Indiglo], my internal body temperature had risen to 310.8722K (per my current mental conversion capacity).

I can’t even begin to count all the times when words (especially adjectives/nouns) can be interchanged to glean equally (if not more) potent meaning.

As you’ll see, parentheses have been criminally devalued in their potentially vibrant applications to written languages {outside mathematics, of course}.

I’m afflicted with the worst O.C.D. in the lugubrious history of hypochondria.

Oops. This is supposed to be about you.

Literally nothing can be your own fault.

At the same time, you could be blamed for anything.

In all likelihood, you have been conditioned by monotony since birth.

Yes, in actual fact, quite probably, you have been set in motion on a compliantly oblivious course leading beyond the domestication, indoctrination, and tragic defeat of oneself.

Like I almost said, it’s not your fault!

Somehow, it’s all mine.

Oh, you all.

“People,” the humanity of today.

Breathtakingly sensitive humans.

In other words, we occupy carbon-based lifeforms.

Who put humans in charge of a whole planet anyway?

Is this really a good idea?

What’s wrong with us?

A person can fall in love with just about anything.

We see good in bad.

We find bad in good.

Yes, “we.” As a genetic mutant, I find myself on your team by default; the real kings of the castle want to study me, extract all my key chemicals, then murder me.

But also (in a weird twist) I would have picked your (human [i.e. emotional]) side anyway.

Were it not for curiosity, we would be incapable of detecting subtext.

Take away our sense of wonder, stifle our imaginations, strip away our innocence, and what’s left?

Hint: the answer is not childhood.

Name a sight more precious than a child’s eyes when they sparkle.

Fun fact: kids are much better at behaving naturally than adults.

Indeed, linguistic depth [sight between the lines] might one day save your brain from abrupt ingestion inspired by the numerically discriminant appetite of an altogether supreme being.

Oh, humankind.

You silly, Mother Goose.

We’ve made some mistakes, but at least we can determine why.

For the last time, yes, I’m one of you. Accept me or die!

I’m only kidding except for the fact that I’m serious.

But, hey, at least our organs communicate with our muscles.
At least we can perceive beauty.
At least we know pain.
In other words, at least neurons relay impulsive signals to body parts.
In other words, at least the natural laws of science merge physics with reality.
In other words, seismic activity engulfs rock hard matter until a volcano erupts.
In other words, bodies fuck each other over while lusting after lube.
In other words, folks fight for control of oil reserves.
In other words, at least everyone gets screwed.
In other words, people bang.
In other words, Madame Gravity finds herself stuck with Lord Light.
In other words, what a dick.
In other words, we lose the past to His victory.
In other words, we owe our future to Her deafening triumph.
In other words, we lean on one another at present.
In other words, we’re required to be around each other.
In other words, sooner or later, we’ll talk.
In other words, sparks will always fly.
In other words, this is getting annoying.
In other words, in the absence of light, darkness must fall.
In other words, we can‘t see a damn thing unless light is shone.
In other words, it is possible to show by telling.
In other words, you need to care.
In other words, you may learn nothing from reading symbols.
In other words, you might discover everything by picking up signals.
In other words, anything can happen.
In other words, when will this end?
In another word, STOP.

Here we are, finally.

This must be the end for me.

Does that mean it’s the beginning for you?

In other words, I’m lost!

But we are only just getting warmed up.

Prepare for ignition (of {re}cognition).