Step in the city. Another one. In your favorite city. In your adored world. Happiness in your eyes. While admiring nature and industry, you hate them in your own way. You have a divine sense of yourself. But what do you need? Either an overabundance or a lack is felt here. Or is it a suicide mania.
And there was a noise in your ears. It rattled, your steps. They shook the city. The plants responded with a rustle. They themselves are ready for death and excited in anticipation of unbearable pain. All sounds are mixed. Ringing, whistling, popping, rumbling and barking crawled like bugs in your eyes, each with its own speed. This sound was as long as a worm, yellow and pimply. Another one flowed out with small pink balls. Another swirled up in shiny ribbons. You looked at sounds and heard tastes. You remembered the boa that you raised at home. You knew that she was crawling out of the apartment now. There was pleasant warmth in your ears. Undoubtedly, your ears heard how delicious was the blood of that baby that your boa found in the neighbors' apartment. Yes, it was not just that. And the whole world was filled only with you, only with your thoughts. You always knew that one. And that the world cannot survive without you. And now your suicide will be the end of this beautiful world. You are something that should not be born. Your soul is armageddon. You understood too much without knowing anything. You will become a god, but that is not what you wanted.
The inflatable sky pressed its burgundy belly to the ground and flew off like a balloon. The whole world was losing to the beat of the melody your brain remembered. The border between them no longer existed. Your memories were creeping up from the walls of familiar buildings and popping up to prevent your passage. If they angered you, then they instantly got a vile gray peel that wrinkled and burst, spreading green slime. You went around the puddles and you were facing their heat, you touched their stink and threw it behind your back. Pleasant memories instantly captured you, threw you into a dream. And only when you recalled that you were the master of everything - they disappeared. And you regretted them. You would like to be with them forever. But every time everything was repeated. A bright clue popped up that you were only in an inactive world, where all living and nonliving things were part of you. And as soon as you push the universe, it all rolls into a cell smaller than the nucleus of an atom. And you’ll be the last one to jump into the cell yourself. And your body will leave, although you have forgotten about its existence since long. And one thought of your consciousness will remain nowhere. And there will be no space, not even chaos. The thought will remain without continuing, not developing. And it will be concluded that if there is no meaning, then there is no existence. And since there is no meaning, then there will be no more existence until the meaning is born somewhere. Itself. From nowhere. And your thought will die, the last part of your consciousness, because your consciousness will never understand what meaning can be and what existence with meaning can be.
And now you are going to this goal, delaying its approximation as much as you like, until you are tired of this endless circumvention of your possessions, swimming in your dreams and memories. You can enjoy it for eternity. Or two. But the memories will come to an end. Or they’ll all be sick, because you don’t perceive new impressions. You do not feel life, do not remember interest, love, but only the beauty of the world. You feel a sense of gratitude to it for what you experienced. Because your minutes were always beautiful in their own way. You always adored and hated yourself at the same time. You blissed out, feeling inside and cried from the abomination, seeing from the side. Feeling the insignificance of yourself and all people.
You looked around the world, but everything was too bright, too precise and too mobile and your sensations could not be described in any way...
2001