akaadam

Cold. I have lost control over my own brain. I am living involuntarily. Is it over for me? Sold...my soul to buy into the business of selling souls. It's a seller's market, baby. I travel among entrepreneurs of the like and unravel with the schemes of tangled commerce and frayed friendships loosely held together. I'll never tie the knot with anyone as long as business is booming and people are paying to walk blindfolded into their doom. I am a king of these foolish things, pulling strings to defy anything, even using means of bullying as long as it makes my wallet green. My hair may be gray, but I'll take a full billfold for an empty soul any day. The simple truth is not what what it seems. These sacred souls are all we have to believe. That's my pitch. It coats my black heart and is sealed by a stringent smile. It hides and shades the time of day so that I may have the unsuspecting person, innocent, murderer, usurper and even you, good sir, dancing by a string, a strand held by dancing Fates with hungry scissors in hand. Alas, the time is nigh for me to unwind and uncover what is behind this black mask of grime and lies to reveal yet another hidden face, Matryoshka shells in place of forgotten substances of existence. I am checked in at the Control Inn to rest my sin and turn in my turmoil my heavy luggage discretely tucked away in the overhead that I've toted through terminal after terminal and funeral after funeral. Here at the Control Inn I wish to start my life again. I've lost my sense of nothingness, absolute zero has escaped me, I've forgotten about genesis. Tabula rasa, please erase me. The key to forgiveness and purity at the push of a button is all I want to be voided and wanton is oblivion. The walls and floor are nothing but white, but the air is painted the color of everything: the dull furniture, multicolored stained mattress, red curtained window, a pale stale lamp all look so real, yet wavering intangibly a mundane masterpiece, a prosaic mosaic. This place looks like home where I leased my childhood. At least Time is immortal, since I wasted so much of it in a sense. I lament it in regretful reminiscence. In silence, can you hear that quiet treble tone in your ear, that high-pitched shriek? Behold, the cries of Time, weeping as it is depleting from our very lives. I now sit down and lay my head, un-don my crown made of thread, undo my preacher's gown, and lie here dead and sound. These days are redundant; they overlap and laugh over my trampled aspirations. To only intuit to hope to awake tomorrow anew is too much to ask of as an offering of an obfuscating officer, my mental overseer. I long to be my own boss sometimes, but there's no such thing as a free mind. A sigh releases from my burning chest like steam floating opposite gravity, and suddenly, my eyes burst through the ceiling and reflect in my pupils the night's clear weather, the diamond sky that lasts forever unlike my skin of withered leather. However, Time and I, we'll die together! These constant constellations were never more than what we know better as disguised fires of burning masses that implode as mine does now. Yet, the star lives on...as a phoenix with flaming plumed wings flying on solar winds across the universe, shedding light and feathers into space. And although a lone feather is lost and faded, it still flies while separated. A faint chuckle escapes me at the mention of these words like the rhythmic pats of a stone skipped across an endless lake. The sound sends me adrift to sleep and... Cold. I have lost control over my own brain. I am living involuntarily. It's over.