Pure Green Poison

I’ve been obsessing over a certain actress recently in my life whom I’ve never met, hardly seen, since she’s not huge, and doesn’t desire to be, something I admire about her.  But the temptation to simply look at her face, to see the smile and feel the gaze, to daydream about the companionship she might bring if ever we were to meet is intoxicating.  Poison slipping and oozing down my throat, its green and gooey texture filling up my lungs until I can’t breather without her face before me; it coats my veins until I feel I can’t live without feeling her fake digital gaze on too my face, and into my eyes, filling with the cold, dark green of the poison she envelops me with.  It spreads throughout my body like a cancerous growth, but unseen and untouchable, simply there, asphyxiating in its uncontrollable and un-understandable power.  And it finally comes upon my heart, and hardens around my strongest muscle, my life source, and turns a cold, hard, black color that clenches tighter and tighter, every moment away from her digital face force its grasp to hold tighter and tighter to the only warm thing in my body, the only thing trying desperately to reach my brain with its pure bloody thoughts of life beyond her life-saturating face.  Only to become mixed and overcome by the poison of the obsession before it even reaches the outside of the heart from which it comes.  The cold dark green obsession with someone I’ve never met, in some place I’ve never been, in a field of work I’ve never felt comfortable in, and in a state of mind I know I’m not in.  She sits atop a throne while I cower at the base, not even daring to look up, to gather the resources around me to fly up and finally see the surroundings of her childhood, her upbringing and the country that she calls home.  Nothing do I want more than to escape the wretched cocoon of my room where I retreat each day, all day, to call my infinite palace of knowledge and growth, my social life extends into the vastness of the world, but only through the tentacles of a digital age’s capabilities.

My social interactions are limited, and mostly with my family.  The cold room where I sit, day after day after day after day, contemplating my life and how much I would adore soaring away from this cold, dark place.  I can’t bear to be here any longer.  I feel only unsatisfied with every moment, every second passes through me a dark and wintry second as if they were snowflakes passing through my veins, and the poison had frozen them up so cold that the snowflakes didn’t even melt through their journeys.

Something whispers to me in the night, and I perk my ears up to listen, only to find that it’s the simple longing for something new, for someone new, for some warmth that is not familiar, some strange loving care that caresses my shoulders, my head, my legs, my whole body and wraps me up, embracing me for a full twenty minutes with no selfishness at all, and nothing to tear it away.  Simply loving me.  Simply caring enough to exude the warmth of the sun a thousand times over with nothing held back, no otherworldly goals, no shadows in which to hide its secrets.  The only thing that whispers to me in the night is the lack of that warmth, day in and day out, again, and again, and again.

And so I wake up the following morning, retreating to me screen and my keyboard like someone out of the Matrix in their control room, ready to take on the world, only I am already full of the realization that the world has no knowledge of me, that I matter not to the way it functions, to the way it turns and spins.  If I simply disappeared it would not lose its course in the universe.  If I simply disappeared people would not fly to the streets with signs and banter about the right cause of the life and the necessity of the unity of man.  My leaving would cause no such fuss.  My leaving would simply be that: me leaving.  And I think that, day in and day out, that my leaving may simply be the best thing I could do in the world, for the world, for myself.  Maybe some time in some distant land that I know nothing about would be my savior, would find me that warmth, would bring me closer to the sun and to the cure for this poison that rots my insides as if they were already dead.

I’m wrapped up in my own private world.  Nobody sees it, nobody knows it, and yet I tell people almost every day what parts of life are like.  What parts of my life are like.  Hopelessness, the other poison, must be the fermented version of this green gooey obsession, this sadness that fills my being.  The inescapable torture that it brings with it, the desire for difference, for life, for something warm and something new.  The rotting insides of my cold, hardened body all completely unseen by any innocent bystanders.  The daily ritual is suicidal, and the urge for random, eclectic travel seems out of my reach, and so where do I possibly go to for a source of life but the digital fakeness of imagery and audio that is simply replication of the beauty I see in the digital versions of something that must in real life be utterly incomprehensibly gorgeous.  I’ve been told not to get too obsessed, not to let it get under my skin, to seek help if things get “out of hand.”  Life is already out of my hands.

I don’t want to fight this poison here, on my own ground, I want to fly away, soar through the clouds as high as possible, as close to the sun as I can reach, and to touch its rays with my hands, my face, my shoulders, my legs, as if it were holding me itself, as if I were simply a cloud on my own, floating around through the sky, oblivious to life and sorrow, obsession and poison, hardship and suffering.  As if they didn’t even exist.  I would much rather make a stand on foreign soil against this beast of green obsession than remain here in quiet isolation, joyless, friendless, loveless aside from what the typical family can give.  That almost doesn’t seem to matter.  I know it’s there, and I know I’ll at some time come out of this haze of infection and back into the world of reality, and I know they’ll only have noticed quietly, waiting for a word or a desire for help to be uttered from me, the quiet and isolated member of the family.  Only I won’t.  And so they won’t.  And I will move on into some other chapter of my life, into some new place of my life and hope that the poison will not envelop me again.  And I will strive for work or play in some foreign land where the sun always shines and the weather is always warm and the love simply flows from all people, smiles and friendliness are never surprising to find and the common sit-down coffee-shop really is the beginning of a long and blissful relationship, no matter who with, but someone who provides something of that warmth of heart, the beginning of the cure to the cold, hard heart that I’d acquired through strict obsession with the digital face of something rare and remarkable.

But until then, I suppose I just wait out the days and do my best with what I can.  Even if at times it seems that may be nothing.  I just travel on through the tunnel of life with the occasional beam of light bouncing off my now hardened and reflective surface, long enough for me to gaze in wonder and glory at the sight of someone else’s fortune, and then it’ll disappear, forcing my mind to race with methodical and spontaneous courses of action to achieve my own glory, to cast my own beam of light, and perhaps warm the hearts of others, less fortunate, who feel as I do now: loveless, lost, alone, cold, and empty.

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3 Responses to “Pure Green Poison”

  1. …it’s why quest stories resonate so deeply with our consciousness, long odyssey-like journeys. They’re, of course, a metaphor for life, every river in every novel or story a tributary representing experience, pain, loss and epiphany. Journey, explore, dare to enter the realm of dragons, engage, intoxicate, allow yourself to be spellbound, gobsmacked, uplifted by the act of drawing another living breath.

    We’re fortunate to be alive and conscious of our own fragile existence. We’re sentient and therefore we know life is fleeting and to be treasured…

  2. I follow your posts for a long time and should tell you that your articles always prove to be of a high value and quality for readers.

  3. Well thanks very much. Glad to hear I’ve got some regular readers. Just to let you know, I’ve moved the blog (just this past weekend, very recent) to animivirtus.com/blake. So from now on, go there to read new posts, as I won’t be posting here anymore.

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