New Stream of Consciousness: Mascara Territory
I thought filming this was important, more or less necessitated by the situation, but I did not foresee the technological breakdown until it was too late. It has become painstakingly obvious that I will have to record these events by hand. Presently a slowly dying and mutilated will-be corpse lies at my feet, the end coming slowly to my wax impression of a brother - mascara bleeding down his right eye, tears mixing with chemicals in what seems like a symbiotic man vs. nature relationship, neither one gaining full control over the situation, both agonizing for the spotlight. It’s tough to maintain any sort of compassion for a robot. After all, he along with every one else has been preprogrammed to act a certain way, think a certain way, perform a certain way. It is this very semblance that has made my condition so much more apparent. If the virus had acted even a bit subtler, maybe I wouldn’t have caught on. Be as it may, I have taken notice of it as it slowly takes hold over my mind. I no longer know if I remain sane or if I’ve sacrificially been given over to the clutches of insanity. I can no longer recall if my brother died helplessly at my feet or if perhaps I am responsible for his demise. I try not to focus on the tv playing inside my head and visions of death and destruction. The image blurs as if passing through tears, but I know they do not belong to me. Scissors flicker with the soft light, contour lines of the incision, much less human than autopsy. It is possible that this is simply an experiment of my mind. Who could blame me? Who am I anyway? I simply want to empirically test the time it takes to stop a heart from beating while blood gushes around a foreign object, gleaming in the haunting glow of daybreak. If I did indeed do this, I must decide now if this specimen is worth recording. The blood feels warm over my hands, but it is nothing new. The feeling is tangible, inescapable. Why does this death seem so wasted? It is as if my experiments have been conducted in vain. I grow tired of the petering spray of human life spouting about me. It can no longer fuel the fire that burns within me. I need kindling. And for now, this frigid reminder of life’s malfunction will not do. The blood has begun to dry, slowly turning as black as the mascara that so possessively masks his territory.
More of my writings can be found at my lit profile:
Stream of Consciousness
Peace and Love,
The Rebellion Magazine
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