My ambition lies in overthrowing reality. His is for fame. A-get-seen-quick-scheme that makes my body groan. He believes he is grounded in objective data, and sneers at the ugliness around him, naive to it's mirroring of his insides. He thinks like a computer, in compartments and programs, file under- rename- share- copy-paste-just fucking stop for the love of god.
I pretend to be crazy so I can get away with doing what's right. He is married to mediocrity in the toneless safety of his beige bedroom, sealed off and wound up tight. His skin has lost it’s elasticity because he drinks so much, and shrouds his body like a canopy of dread. The grumbling in his stomach he mistakes for hunger is a child's cry for god.
I want to contaminante his false sense of clarity, and show him the truth is kaleidoscopic, but he is addicted to the program. And scared. Ignorant of whose thoughts or feelings leak into his own, brainwashed and suffering from the delusion of separateness. Gifted the gift of being able to mimic.
So I’m gonna send a fat-breasted fertility goddess to his door at four am, have her flip over his book shelves and piss on their lame contents, and spread dark, glorious compost on his bad art. She’ll peg him with originality, awakening, rowdy bliss and ecstatic truth. She’ll teach him that you can’t share your soul with anyone until you stop avoiding your own.