adfdadas

Go down for the first two chapters.

C.W: Self-harm, depression, and rude language.

W.I.P - SUBJECT TO CHANGE/IMPROVE. CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS ENCOURAGED. (BECAUSE THIS IS ON REDDIT, IT WON'T BE IN THE CORRECT FORMAT OR HAVE MANY OF THE DESIGN FEATURES, FONTS, ETC. This novel abides by its own rules and punctuation, and the meanings should be obvious. Don't criticise me about that because we're on Reddit.)

At the halfway point of adulthood and childhood, Neri, who's finally turned 16 like he once dreamed as a kid, struggles with traumatic mental health scars such as depression after being left to suffer with the consequences of his actions and those from childhood he couldn't even save in the housefire...now, left to rot with guilt in his new isolated, cold apartment, forged from memories and questions but never answers. 

Clinging onto the "perfect" past and "perfect" kid he once was (whom he calls Bliss), he attempts to escape his identity and become someone new, someone better. Consequently under a fit of rage, he discovers a burning forget-me-not on his head from another reality, a manifestation of his trauma?, a saviour?, that guides him towards his next path and choices carefully. High and dry, he uses drugs as a coping mechanism and a way to disassociate into the kaleidoscope of darkness he's always found safe, under his blanket for the very last time, transitioning into a surreal lucid dream. 

The whole novel in all 3 volumes (obviously, early explanation and is being vastly gatekept and is subject to change), is about venturing the 3 split layers of the mind: Illusion, Life, Reality; Soul, heart, brain. He will have to discover pieces of his shattered brain, make choices whether to escape or face the consequences, and relive both nostalgic memories and trauma to reconstruct what "bliss" really means. Through memories, make-believe worlds, and raw, emotional truths, he'll eventually unravel the entangled mess of consequences he's caught in and mend his broken mind and body, forming the genuinely disgusting but realistic and well-portrayed truth at the end of his distorting complex of chaos and order, morality and lies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Are you happy?

 

 

 

YES                  NO

 

 

Chapter 1: Depression

[Now playing: Forever - DXXDLY]

Neon flames. A spark, and then a vacuum; twisting fires burning the chaos they illuminate as they suck into the void of nothing.

Our memories don’t fade. They rot like I.

They blister and split and collapse inward, a collapsing endless complex of fragmented thought; eruptions and distortions echoing in time’s final collapse as the nerves of our brain cave in.

Not a place, but what's left of my mind. Through twisting synapses and neurons that fire their last, through corridors that rearrange the truth.

Everything, our past and present, dying before my dying eyes, but still, I’m running down paths with no end that hopelessly break and shatter into voidless absence; I’m like the final dying nerve cell in Libet’s delay, the last flicker of light before dark, the last-…

If I stop. There’s nothing. I don’t know what I’m chasing, only what I’ve lost.

But I need to feel it again.

Just once.

One last time.

A voice echoes. A hand reaches. A life. But it’s just mine. Shattering into the kaleidoscope of nothingness. Darkness…

Time doesn’t rewind, and this is when I finally realise. Second chances are just a delusion. My past was disillusionment. I finally see past the illusion; all that’s left for me now in the present, all there ever was and could’ve been in the past and future, was the nature to wait.

All I could ever do...was wait**…**

TICK

TOCK

TICK

TOCK

TICK

TICK

TICK—

[Now ending: Forever - DXXDLY]

The world ended while I was sleeping again...

Mourning doves and that; they dance with joy as if they haven’t got a care in the world. But a clock won’t stop fucking ticking over their singing, already halfway through their song. Not that I deserve to listen, anyway.

Like my dirty pale fingers that claw my face – my eyes not even open yet -, I can hear the waves of that far beach swashing and smashing cruelly into the gritty stone-fused sands; like a crushing tsunami of molten lava. Like the rough texture of my bandages and skin rubbing together; bandages like sandpaper; skin like its paper soaked into flesh. I should be dead--

Even the laughter of those idiots who think they’re right to be happy, unaware I’m stuck, trapped, rotting. But they’re carefree, without a problem in the world. Pure. Bliss. Its not fair…

Or..maybe..that beach, those people, are all in my head… That’s right, I’m not there, not Home, not anywhere. Whose--apartment is--this?

I recognise the old seesaw that creaks and sways gently through the breezy wind, skimming the edges of freshly cut grey grass. That nostalgic smell of alcohol and hay brings me back to a simpler time for a moment. Then, sickness, regret.

And above, grey looms (like it always now does). Grey, cloudy skies of static.

Static--

That’s right… I know what’s happening; where I am. This has to be Uncle and that’s old place, a.k.a my new and first apartment.

I’m really just that cool and well-adjusted of a guy I had to ruin it I ruined everything fuck my life fuck everyone fuck everything FUCK—-

Woke up late; tick, tock, tock. A low droning of silence.

My heavy temples throb with static and regret. I lie in the mess of my bed, blinking at the ceiling, letting the weight of nothing (and EVERYTHING) press harder into my chest; tock, tick, tick.

Bliss is the perfect kid I used to be before all this shit, and it’s Bliss’s old painted clock that's tick-tick-tockin’ on loop. I remember that, too - when it was once freshly painted with bright and decorative colours. Now look at it; how rusty and crusty the paints are now, dull and pale, faded to black.

This cramped coffin’s all grey ‘n gloom; all the lights’re off (fitting…). I’m just..staring at the dull ceiling of nothing..! That’s what I’m doing today!

GOD—JUST--How productive!

First day livin’ without em’, first day on my own.

And I slept through all of it...

Hats off to you, Neri! You’re a big 16-year-old boy now!! Oh golly!, what a time to have to move out!

The age I always looked forward to as a kid; finally going out to parties with friends, adventuring the world, and doing all sorts of stuff I’d see in those TV shows.

Funny how all that turned on me.

And no mum, no dad…

I mean —last time I saw them was-…

That fire still lingers in my eyes, and the pain lingers on my eyes - though I can only see through one, the other bandaged up - ; like a sharp, piercing dagger, poisonous with no end--, like a disease, still carving my brain for the sake of trauma’s effect, yet also eating at my memories as ironic coping?

“Trauma”… What a weird thing.

God, now--this is nothing like my real Home. Nothing is.

I wish I could go back...I would do—anything...

I wanna cry. But I can't. I just can't anymore.

If my head is a faucet, then what do I do if I can’t run anymore?

Gazing at a pile of junk on my floor, my eye traces the black edges of that cross mum used to always make me pray to if I felt low.

…

When I go on my phone with a colourless blue glow like grey, the blinding, digital light bombards my drooping eye. The open, numbing parts of bandages I peeled to feel (something) expose almost skinless hands that tremble and struggle to tap.

Two hours pass? Three?

Scrolling and staring and tapping aimlessly on loop like a machine - eye blurred, not even focused.

That’s when they arrive at the bedroom door. Looming. The shifting shadows in the figures of people. They burn in black flames, and their eyes flicker—the only realistic part of them, vivid with colours of familiarity. They grow familiar with the randomness of their fires. Most of the time they don’t even speak words (don’t have to); just mutter. Loom with hate, nudging, tugging, prodding me like my regrets. But in reality, they just loom; in the shadows of my room, they loom.

I turn my head, eye drifting round the somehow already a junkyard that’s my bedroom prison. What a mess.. All these unpacked boxes, half-empty rooms.

Don’t think there’s a difference ‘tween me and a building anymore...

If I was in a book, I’d rewrite the start.

There’d also be an audience..that’d be nice…

Uncle and some old relatives helped with unpacking last night – most importantly, the things saved from the fire (barely); Old, dusty CDs from Iris ‘n Dad; childhood drawings; Bliss and old friends’ camera and memory book; and I see what’s left of his childhood toys.

It doesn’t move. But it sure remembers; it always does. Though ripped apart, headless, and traumatised, at least I still have his favourite childhood bunny—Illusy. But do I even deserve to have them...? They sleep tight, forced in my arms whether I like it or not. Maybe if I have what I had as a kid, I could be happy again…!

…

Suddenly they slip out my hands ‘n spill into piles of junk —I groan and roll out of bed. Not cause I want to, but because I have to.

I consider showering—two weeks without one, and I feel my (leftover) overgrown hair agonisingly rebelling.

You don’t deserve warm or cold water; you deserve an icy coffin, you filthy, rotting piece of shit.

I don’t. I can’t. I’m not used to it anymore. Even last night (all I did was contemplate), when they brought me here—I told myself I’d try. That I’d fix my life with this fresh start,  like they said.

I’ll do it tomorrow—-

—No. No, you fucking won’t.

I consider going out into the balmy grey sun, a blinding fire in the sky.

The exit is right there. Do it, then.

...

When I shuffle into the back of the dimly-lit living room, it’s too silent, too..lonely.. Nothing but the low hum of the fridge..

**..**The Shadow People begin to flicker in so it feels less alone.. They seem bothered, eating and chatting at the table like a mocking memory.

Chatting about what?

I don’t know. It’s hard to think.

That’s what you always say. Your mood isn’t an excuse.

--My stomach’s empty. The shadows aren’t looking, and I guess everyone real has left.

It’s—not like we’d do anything, anyways...

With lazy but exaggerated child-like movements, I yank the rusty fridge open with my dirty foot.

The droning light flickers.

I grab a cold can of vodka, sliding it into Bliss’s jumper sleeves.

There’s literally no food but mac ‘n cheese. I don’t know how to make mac ‘n cheese.. Ah. Microwavable. Thanks so much that solves ALL my problems!!

Better than nothing.

God, wait —I don’t even have a microwave!

I groan.

Barely even stirring it in the pan with a steak knife, and my mind wanders…--

The rays of summer sunlight seep through the window, tinging the kitchen counter with warmth. Mum, with her extensive flower-decorated braids tied back, is gently guiding me to stir the cake batter. My Uncle’s watching the action movie with hot ‘n cheesy popcorn ready for me when I get back, while I take a glorious peek every 5 seconds. And my little cousins are giggling and darting around the house like monkeys, so fast it might collapse!, knocking over all the decorations, popping balloons, and snooping at the cake, begging for a taste like every 4 seconds.

We’re visiting. It’s my 8^(th) birthday…!

It was my 16^(th) birthday yesterday.

--But then, a little serotonin loosens my furrow. That creamy, cheesy, and hot aroma, warms me with nostalgic comfort from the bubbling water of the pan – the air feels nice against my cold palms, and I begin to feel..proud? I’ve always had my own knack for cooking! I’m actually doing something independent, being..normal!

Everything’s going to be okay.

Just when I think it’s ready - boiling hot - I overload it golden brown on a small plate!

Slowly, I compact a chunk with my almost (not irreversibly!) yellow teeth!

I swallow.

. . .

The plate goes into the bin.

Guilt swells in my throat like bile. It tastes like rock...

 

...
WHAT DID YOU DO—

The shadows move- They glide toward me, silent and grotesque, as if preparing to gut me for my sins- To split open my stomach and spill out the rot inside- To scream at me until my ears bleed-

I bolt to the bathroom.

Hands trembling, I scramble to lock the door behind me. The handle rattles once—then nothing.

White noise…

I could’ve had a good morning.

I could’ve gone out to find my uncle and cousins.

Maybe today could’ve meant something.

Maybe- maybe- maybe I or we could’ve fixed things-

Why do you fucking do this?

[Now playing: Void in Blue (2023 remaster) - Glare]

“Why do I fucking do this???”

The words crack out of me in pieces.

“Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy--” I mutter locked on pointless repeat sliding down the door ‘til my raspy trembling voice breaks, ‘til I do.

With a shuddering breath, I hurl myself towards the toilet, fumbling out the vodka and breathlessly gulping it all down as I forcefully gag and choke. I feel a little bile clog my throat, overflowing in my mouth and out my nose like I’m an empty doll—then, I expel the squelching, tiny, filthy slop into the toilet—some into the alcohol. I still drink; I don’t care anymore.

You don’t deserve to eat after what you did.

My vision fades.

[Now pausing: Void in Blue (2023 remaster) - Glare]

Dark.

Don’t you ever wish you could go back?

“Illusy?” a toddler’s slurring voice asks behind the menacing door of the rusty, putrid slaughterhouse (or more like an old prison), turning the handle. I see the shadow of young Bliss, waddling in the room with soft wheezes and swallows. He’s holding a piece of paper with a nervous and worried curiosity in his face, wobbling between an excited smile. But then he sees me, kneeling by the toilet; a mess of vomit and bandages. First, he shivers before he can process. Next, his mouth gapes with drool, his eyes twitch his small and red puffy face into ugly and scared sobs; the paper slips from his hand and slides down to me as the outburst of high-pitched, frantic hiccups and gulping wails flood the room, rupturing my ears. But I see the drawing of Illusy and Bliss having a picnic..

Light…

[Now continuing: Void in Blue (2023 remaster) - Glare]

I don’t know how long I’ve been lyin’ here on the cold, hard, pale tiled pale bathroom pale floor. I decay in a mess of blood, sweat, tears, and any other disgusting fluids a human can expel. And yet, my head still feels numb. I sit, frozen in black, blank, staring at nothing.

Minutes? Hours?

I feel dead.

I might as well be.

Dark...

I wanna escape my past, but I find comfort in it. I’m trapped.

Feet dangling from that old playground bridge, the night is numb. “Don’t kill yourself, Neri…” Iris’s pastel blue eyes linger on the stars, while my eyes are on the road our family used to drive on - back when we had more free time. A moment of crickets chirping, cars vrooming on the distant roads illuminated by soft, warm oranges from streetlights. They flicker behind foliage and scattered trees. “How can I forgive myself? I didn’t mean to--but I- I killed a man, Iris! And Michael probably hates me, too. Felix hasn’t said a thing to me in months. At least you won’t leave me, right…?”

Light.

The old, cracked mirror glares in horror at the first impression of the new me. I stare back—guilty of what I’ve become. And uncontrollably, my eyes begin to twitch and tremble—of course they do—but I’m too tired to, too drained to cry. My mouth attempts to blubber the closest thing to one, but sounding more like an animal’s moans, learning to make noise; struggling for breath and only able to breathe in, like my lungs have been stabbed, rapid(ly) through trembling chokes. With quivering hands I panic. I slap ‘n clutter the dozens of supplies and things and grab some mascara o- or something, and I force myself to smile to change to escape to be-..!

”GOD DAMNIT!”

--But I’m shaking so much the black smears in my eye and bandages and-

You cant escape what you are.

Behind gritted teeth ‘n a fake smile so forced, I scream, slowly turning my face from desperation to be “beautiful” or “handsome” rambling, “I’m pretty I’m pretty I’m pretty I’m pretty…” into infuriation, uglily giving up into wheezing “sobs” against the mirror, “I’m ugly, I’m ugly, I’m ugly, I’m ugly…”

In my reflection: Once 2 lavender eyes full of life and colour...now just one, grotesque and grey-purple with spotted black mistakes.

“I’m sorry…Bliss…” I murmur to that better, perfect kid I used to be.

But Bliss is dead. Now-.. Now, I feel too ashamed to even call myself by that name. I’m no body……………

 I’m ashamed of the broken mess I see now: Still wearing Bliss's specially knitted jumper from mum, now worn out and too tight for what I’ve become. It used to be patched with multicoloured, geometric colour block patterns - mainly bright and yellow colours — now, faded, black. Black from the dirt and darkness of a miserable present I smother myself in. Even the abominably painted neons I only recently started using – not only on the jumper but on the trousers.

How disgusting.

Suddenly, uncontrollably, violently, my fists beat my head.

Still wearing his old, unfit, and baggy pyjama bottoms, torn to shreds with bruises like the jumper. Once a light vermillion, of course, because it was dad’s old clothes lent to me—now ruined with faded darkness, too.

What a fraud.

I smash my hollow cranium harder, knocking the bone like a door.

Scribbled skin.
 Imperfect Doodles. Scars.
 Ugly mistakes.

Can’t—do—ANYTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I pound my fists against my skull, flinching at every gnawing, cracking, carving pain in my boiling brain. Like falling upside-down down a tight hole, head splitting, cutting into each puncturing rock. It’s mutilation I know, but I can’t control it, It’s brainless it’s- its moronic and pointless I know I know, I tell myself I know, but I can’t-.. Over and over and over--

If- if only it never happened- if only they didn’t change- if only they didn’t do this to me-! to us-!, I- if only-!

Something haunting brushes against my fingers.

[Now ending: Void in Blue (2023 remaster) - Glare]

I pause.

A great, crumpled forget-me-not, tangled and paling in my overgrown hair. This isn’t a normal flower; far from-.. It’s as if the sun bloomed —a supernova of life, an intertwined blossom in itself.

Exactly?, I can’t tell how many, but it looks large enough to have held nearly a hundred petals. But now…only one petal remains; the trauma of torn tissue at the base tells me they might’ve all been recently plucked out.

One petal remains..

Hypnotizing……………… —

—It doesn’t belong.

Not in this world, at least.

From its middle, it burns an abstract everlasting flame of a shining white light, lingering like the faint pain from the housefire.

Where did this come from...?

...I- I--don’t remember...

Dark.

It was so much easier back then. I don't want change, I don't want growth.

Where am I? Who am I?

A shadow burning in a white light whispers amidst faint, fuzzy outlines of green hills and beauty. “Remember… Go to sleep…”

Light.

...Why did they do this to me...?

Suddenly, an existential darkness; it races through my nerves and ruptures my mind. 5840 times. It shocks every wire of my brain, 5840 times, as it all bleeds out as the thought.

The thought that changed everything.

Dark…

I wanna go Home...

Through the staticky, cheap, and old camcorder left on and pointed at the lukewarm sun at the end of winter that melts the snow around the lens, and smothered by the airy breeze, I see glimpses of movement from us back when we were kids – giggling and playing around.

 Iris points, sprinting past the camera into the forest. “Hey, it’s Mr Snow-snow!”

Felix rushes behind (the shuffles of him tripping into a tree and then another echoing). “Oh wait!—wait, it is!!!”

“Well, at least what seems to be left of him…”

Bliss wails to the skies; the scattering of the snowman’s remnants being tossed across the floor fills the forest with obnoxious noise. “Noooo!!! Mr Snow-Snow, I will avenge youuu!!!”

--STATIC--

--Michael’s smart hair zooms by, “Wait, everyone! Look! His stick nose, stick arms and flower crown!” he rummages through the remaining corpse of nature; bits and bobs sticking out from the melting mass of snow (that is ‘Mr Snow-Snow’).

--STATIC—

The dark room is silent. Nothing but the fuzz of the camcorder, and Bliss’s fingernails drawing marks on the table. His gaze is unfocused under the camera.

“Eenie, meenie, miney, mo...”

A sigh. “I don’t even know what Michael’s doing nowadays—he’s always inside, says he’s busy, but I ask twice and he yells. I guess I’m still not used to this new area…” he then begins to shuffle towards the cam, “I guess that’s just a part of li-!”

--STATIC--

Light...

[Now playing: derealization - LochHaven]

Crushed up drugs (salvia) on the bedside table.

Hand in hand, eyes dead at the shifting now vibrant skies. Cold skin, I cradle. Yet the world of endless flesh and eyes and endlessly echoing sounds and fruit flies, and all unnaturally animated colours – they always quiver back to grey and gloom somehow, someway.

I’m back Home. Except I’m not.

I am lying in my old, comfy bed of warmth, which is also cold and harsh and itchy. My true Home, and the apartment, conflict, distort. Beaming patterns and shards from the disordered chaos of fake neon I'm Home. --I-I-I-I'm Home. But still, this doesn’t feel like Home.

Whispering to Bliss, “I know this isn’t real, it’s just nice to pretend, isn't it...?”

One moment I’m in, one moment I’m out. I can see the warping ceiling as a beautiful sea of stars. There are no windows; the air is thick with the wind's icy whispers.

Suddenly a fragment of hysterical laughter. Or a giggle of bliss? It cracks me. A moment of finally peace.. ..?

The barely hanging clock on the wall ticks backwards—freshly painted but still depressing and dull..?? Despite everything being in reverse, painfully sluggish, the world outside keeps moving forward. Few cars drive down rain-flooded streets. Dogs barking, crickets chirping.

4:37 AM.

My legs throb, floppy and tireless as if I’m a broken machine forced to march, to march by puppet strings.

Everything                   was                perfect...

Here they come again.

The shadows hover. I know they are real. They carry cut birthday cakes and presents as if praising my alive past, whispering about subjects I just don't want to understand. But one shifts—they burn in a familiar, daunting white light. The scary light hurts my eye with a heavy spark of deja vu. Flinching, I half-cover my eye yet half-peeking. I can vaguely make out their strangely (un)familiar hand?, when they gently place a lavender candle on the table.

They light it. And god, I know exactly who’s lighter they use.

A toasty, dim flame brings unwanted safety to the darkness. And filling the room flows the dreamy scents of lavender, grass, and nothing.

The light blinds me (probably). I flinch away like a vampire freak and cuddle into Illusy……………--

--The eyes of the lavender align with mine, plug into my thoughts, calm my soul with glows of old. I try to breathe, gasping for air under my shallow stuttering breaths of teary suffocation:

...In...

But it hurts. Nothing but chokes and coughs blurt out.

Maybe I should sleep it all off. Maybe this has all just been a bad dream…?

“Yeah………!” I smile sleepily.

My weary head throbs.

My vision blurs.

I sink beneath my blanket.

And finally, I drown, fall into that familiar, in the warmth of that one thing that never changes:

Darkness.

Pure. Still. Endless.

The only place where time doesn't exist.

The only place I can still be him.

Away from this grey house, I’m forced to call Home.

Away from reality, life wants me to inevitably grow up—

to seethe.

A- A- Alone.

(and in the end-)

Dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Echoing, the darkness of the abyss surfs blissfully, echoing, loudening.

Or is it a deep breath?

 

 

 

 

[Now playing: Dreamcore – daniel.mp3]

If a flower blooms in winter,

If its petals fear the wind,

Then what is left to reminisce?,

When there’s nothing left to give…

 

If my head is a faucet and I can’t run,

Then what should I do? when I’m not free (me),

If I count to 3, and I’m not here,

Then the winds of life have shifted my thoughts to fear…

 

If I count to 16, and I’m not here,

Then who will be here with me in the darkness of my head…?

 

If my head is a faucet and I can’t run,

Then I’ve forgotten how to live.

 

I had something left to give.

.     .     .

It starts from one.

 

 

TICK

TOCK

TICK

TOCK

TICK

TICK

TICK—

TOCK

TICK

TOCK

TICK

TICK

TICK

TICK—

[Now ending: Dreamcore – daniel.mp3]

 

 

 

 

Layer 1: Illusion

The SOUL’S NURSERY OF BLISS

(DISSOCIATION)

My heart sinks with each breath I take.

Fuzziness envelops, strings my mind with lost memories.

Lucid dreams draw my reality with a black ink of illusion.

Lavender fog devoid of real light distorts worlds I knew.

Anew.

[Now playing: our dreams are broken – Aphrosyne & мертвая милая icant]

[Next: C O S M I C  T A K E  O F F  (The Soul’s Nursery of Bliss)  –  The Hearpshchrypt Verse]

 

 

My eyes flutter with disbelief, glimmering from the reflections of the distant stars. Not even the greatest words of beauty could accurately describe it; a boundless, colourful universe kaleidoscope! First, the glowing, hypnotic lavender fog over a void of darkness. And as it spirals, the vibrancy of the colours and dazzling sights beyond burst into view; plastic stars, planets, solar systems... The endlessly spiralling universe is crystallised in eternal beauty, entrancingly patterned like a stylised, abstract, and surreal wet painting I could never comprehend. And ahead in the fog, a blurry, faint, flickering figure of black.

It’s safe. Safe like Home, exactly like how I remember it. And that’s what matters. Frozen in time, aside from the two oceans within.

The kaleidoscope is split between make-believe and reality: two endless, twisting walls of ocean galaxies that spiral up from the deep dark far below, like fountains. But between, the gap is…empty. Missing—few fragments of static, shifting into nothingness. Only the growing black figure ahead.

One galaxy:             A        N       E        M       O       I        A        .         .

With clashing waves, it has the texture of liquid jelly – rosy red –, flowing with animated doodles like stars that shoot past silhouetted glitching distortions of surreal, psychedelic worlds of fun and chaos! All reminiscent of, yet far from, the adventures with Illusy.

The other:     N       O       S        T        A        L        G       I        A        .         .

A glistening ocean of blue and normality, except it’s not? It’s almost rose-tinted from the glittering of the stars in a way that makes it appear indigo. The distortions in it are a lot calmer, though—only objects and rooms—the silhouettes of nostalgic memories. Serene, tranquil, cathartic.

Suddenly, something gargantuan passes through me - its vibrations distort my nerves.

Sluggishly and endlessly growing in entanglement like a brain around the abyss, two worm-like creatures breathe; heavy distortions from far below that erupt into vibrating echoes, yet, like a soothing lullaby.

That rose galaxy of make-believe’s occupied by a shattered worm in shimmering shades of (insanely) electric scribbling reds – scribbling wild eye patterns over a black body - like a hallucination on psychedelics--f- f- flickering like a dying star.  Massive closed eyes are spread ‘round its body. Though from the eyelids like mascara, millions of glowing lavender strings spread out and entangle, weaving.

Ethereal and flexible, they wrap around everything and tie with the strings from the other galaxy.

With closed eyes and lavender strings rising up, the other entity is similar but calmer, a black body smoothly painting midnight blue, flickering like a memory of the past.

Suspended in gravity’s absence, my numb body drifts through the faint breeze and echoes of birds, lost to time. I swim like the particles of lost dreams that wander the void, in utter awe of the colossal and therapeutic atmosphere. All these colours, like they’re unlimited. All these bodies-.. Bodies…

Silhouetted in the thick lavender fog, endless bodies of me drift like unused space waste. Their skin, their flesh, their bones: torn apart. All identically fragmented and disordered like a broken puzzle – some pieces older, some younger, some distorting into things so unidentifiable, yet I feel sick with déjà vu.

I’ve been so distracted I haven’t even noticed my hands…my heart shatters, stops, sinks into my twisting brain and stomach. I’m frozen. My breath, frozen.

A gnawing repulsion eats at whatever broken mess I am now; inverted and folded like paper shapes; unrecognisable – a- a mess in time like them; incomplete.

Suddenly, a thick piece of the lavender swarms me like smoke. I feel my hand and try to search for it to brush the fog away. But I don’t have one..

Then, when the fog thins, that black figure clears. Still, floating above in a slow, entrancing spin (far closer than I thought it was), darkness. Endless. Scribbling. Obscure and ominous eyes, suffocating the dead air, hidden in the soulless nothing, glaring down. A pit. A void. A door. Distorting in flickering neon static, chaotically shifting and defying physics like a black hole.

And as I drift closer...the lines between dream and reality blur. Static cuts in. I pause.

Everything shifts, less fuzzy and fake and more real and sharp. And grainy - I’m drowning in black noise.

--STATIC…--

A sudden, icy gust of wind claws through my invisible skin, squalls against me like a blizzard.

Except there is no wind…

Darkness……………………………. Absolute……………………….

I echo for guidance, “H- h- hello!?... Its..really, really cold in here... Is there anyone with-”

Trillions of voices with a trillion multi-echoing distortions creep in the silence before an overlapping delayed flood of more echoes; unintelligible whispers growing, then gnawing all noise into sudden…nothing.

“……….…..……….Neri……….…...………“ “……….……………Bliss………..…..………”

“……...….Who are you today……...….?” “……...….Just your soul and your choices……...….”

And of course, I state that I’m “Bli-!”

The crushing weight of an abrupt neon flood ruptures and barrages through my head.

Silence………….. Static…………..

I shift between a silhouette of neon in static and a silhouette of static in the neon.

Neon.

Static.

Chaos.

Calm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Now ending music]

An instant flood of chaotic throbbing neon drowns ME, flashing into my silent ears? Then, it diffuses away and melts at the edges of the calm indigo galaxy-ocean. A POOL OF serene blue from a nebulae splatters into paint, then swirls as it collects more blues, AND builds something IN FRONT OF ME!

A SHADOWY black FIGURE like smoke, always being painted over with blues. The silhouette of YOUNGER ME.

Quietly, gently, the figure cradles my hands. They warm them as mum would do.

“Shhh...it’s all gonna be okay.... Your next choices mean everything, alright…..? So for this to be easy, I need you to trust what I have to show you—e-e-even..if you don’t like it. Neri…….” The blue silhouette barely whispers in an all-knowing, stammering, raspy old man’s voice. But his voice trembles. Its ghostly……

His presence calms my brain..

I hesitate to blurt a question, but I don’t have a mouth. I try to nod and gesture, but I don’t even have a head to nod.

His voice smiles softly. “Wasn’t it nice…?”

I think, “childhood…?”

A nod.

“Can you…hear my thoughts…?”

He points around, and his gaze wanders. Then down, with a hard swallow. Back turned, for a moment, he paints beautiful skies and memories on himself with his fingers. “Only him and me. Anything can happen when it’s make-believe,” he turns to me, “but Neri… we can’t ch-ch-change the reality of childhood memories—e-even if you don’t like what you see..what you are……..”

I try to fathom the distortions in the neon edges, but my mind twists back to the questioning.

I argue, “It always has been—perfect—and always will be. At least compared to now; like heaven to Earth,” I look up. “You’re one of them worms, right? Who- w-what are you…? Tell me…” my voice rises into excessive screeching, “Tell me why the hell I’m broken??! This isn’t the type of dream I thought I was gonna have! I can’t do anything! I can’t have anything! ANY-…”

Side turned to the stars, he lets out a light chuckle. But then stops. Something flickers in his painting face, and he shakes the thought, turning uncomfortably back towards me. “It’s better this way. No more rewriting, Neri. Your soul is split, and you know why…” he turns, taking a deep breath and painting on himself. “It's your choice to mend it back in all of this. I’m just one half that’s trying to guide you to the right path.”

“Well—w-what about the other half!?”

He stops. He goes silent for a moment. Then, he compromises with a previous thing I said. “Sometimes the present is better than the past, you know?”

“Sometimes, the present is worse than the past,” I murmur.

With a deep, shaky sigh, he beckons and offers his twisting hand; long lavender strings wrapped around his fingers, with plastic crescent moons at the ends, jingling like tiny bells. “Come… One last time on the road?”

I grin and close my broken eyes, taking his hand. “Another time on the road!”

The ocean evaporates into fog, thickening till it covers everything? My retinas pulse and laugh and live and die? Endless strings guide me up, my mind stretches? The neon and INDIGO flashes into my eyeless eyes like OLD FILM SPINNINGGG? Time enlarging a shattering memory like a mirror, in blue light? THE memory warps a warping car, my reflection a broken body of nothing with a face of nothing can’t remembered blaring through our poisoned will brain like electrified strings.