I am a mad genius, a work of art, the greatest of all. A manic diva, the rays of the sun, the sound of the applause. I am the riots in the streets, the rage of the people, the screams of the mosh pit. I am the wrath of politics, the fear of possibility, and the speed of the city. But furthermore, I am the northern lights and the snow capped mountains, the creatures in the brush. I am the tsunami of the pacific and the lava of the eruption, the wind of the hurricane. The tremors of the earthquake, the rampage of the wildfire, and the aftermath of the tornado. Yet I am the luxury of the Four Seasons, the paradise of the resort, and the elegance of the wealthy. I shape shift into the deafening music of the party, the euphoria of the ecstasy, and the lines of cocaine. I am indeed all of these things. But I remain in the mystery of quaaludes, the beauty of heroin, and the itching of amphetamines. I chase the seduction of men, running through my bones, and I wish for never-ending passion. I can find satisfaction only in being a force of nature. I long to exist with the allure of a casino at night and the sedative trance of gambling. I come alive in the impulsive. I wreak havoc in mania. I command the crowd and disconnect from real connection. Living in a family of mosquitos, I am a bloodsucker upon myself.
In a state of severe tunnel vision, I stare at my own reflection. I envy myself and vanity glazes over my eyes. I lust after myself before another man. I crave the feeling of immortal beauty, going the extra mile to achieve it. I throw every dollar I have into the bonfire in a desperate attempt to turn back time, to reach a higher plateau of feeling, but I see myself burning alive. My morals slowly become corrupted and my eyes burn from crying. My throat cracks from screaming and my eardrums blow out as music blasts down the coastal highway.
I trick myself into believing that, one day, I will achieve this idea of perfection. Because I have an appetite for starvation and a sick obsession with myself. I look into the funhouse mirrors, reflecting my body, slowly slicing off my skin and shrinking my limbs. My blood comes to a rolling boil, trying to level out to homeostasis as my heart rate levels up and my veins nearly burst. I look into these distorted mirrors and watch my body fill with helium. I look at a balloon ready to pop. I look at myself in the rot and disgust. Dysmorphia ignites a restless panic in me, and a nonstop craving for hunger.
My vain intentions are loathsome, with a thirst for greed that repulses the masses. My natural human instincts are shallow. While I lay on the floor, barely breathing, I feel beautiful, or I feel shameful. Rage enters my body and it feels like every object in the room is flying towards me. The ceiling caves in and the walls crack. In this rare moment of clarity, I realize that I do not love myself. I look into my own eyes, but I can't find focus. My pupils dilate and constrict in an uneven, push-pull relationship.
Nothing can halt this self destruction and narcissism. Nothing can sanction this prototype of armageddon. Nothing can stop me from thriving in the dusk and ceasing in the dawn. With organ failure and dark circles of permanence, I live in the shadow of poison. I watch the sun eclipse itself.
Now center the spotlight, to the main event, my life in ruins. Watch me fall off the stage, into the mosh pit, my audience of scrutiny and hatred, of judgement and degradation. Trampled, washed out from the music and the neon lights. A snapped neck and a bruised up body. An irregularity of liver enzymes and a heart palpitating in desperation. Giving up, waiting for the ultimate release, the final exemption from pain. Looking into the silver light.
I am a bully and a thief, a narcissist and a scammer, a hypocrite and a liar. I am corrupt and deceitful, self destructive and irredeemable, selfish and unsatisfied. I live above the law, praying to the lords of hedonism. I mock the entire world, each person, one by one. I add insult to injury, I kick others when they are down, I scream until they go deaf. I commit moral treason, I make excuses for criminality, I test the hypothesis of innocence. Because once you dance with the devil, you will always want to go back to hell. Once you skyrocket into the heavens, you will run out of fuel. Once you find that nothing is left, you will be skeletal, collapsing into a pile of bones, living in a constant attempt to reconstruct your structure.
The choice to walk into the eye of the storm. The journey to the center of the earth. The dive into the bottom of the ocean. Waves crashing into the shore, my own immaculate delusions of control. My own world of desolation and depravity. Seeing my face, feeding off of my unfreedom and instability, looking into the continuum. I predict the future, I use others as pawns in the game of life, I rule as my own sovereign. I leave my body and look upon myself from above. I am the higher power of spirituality. I am the rock bottom in a life of misery. I am the entirety of nothing.
The road I walk, leading to a place I've been before. A familiar place, yet I have no memory of ever being there. I walk down this road, to the unknown, with a broken compass, in the middle of nowhere. I have done it again. In the back of my mind, I know that this is the infamous loop of insanity. I know what is true, right in front of me. I push it down until it disappears. I grab hold of the wheel from the passenger seat. It is a game of chance, a reckless form of gambling. Irrefutable, inexplicable, undeniable. The cycle of obsession. The danger of starvation. Look at what I've done. Look at what is to come.
