Disassociation

by dschapman

I decided to go for it because otherwise I would die like this, as a half-man in a half-man body, an automaton of metal and bone… Well that is too dramatic. But I thought, why shouldn’t I, I’m like this. “I haven’t been myself lately,” I wanted to say, but instead I just stood there, then smiled, then raised my shoulders, then smiled, then laughed, then looked away – I just couldn’t say it. “What am I supposed to do?” I could’ve asked. Instead I made resolutions. I made up my mind to break away from my recent traditions and back into the living grind. I would take off my masks and be fruitless; I would disassociate in person, face to face. I went out with a girl and I realized that I was able to drink again. I realized, even, that I didn’t even notice it, if I allowed myself to just not notice. I tasted nothing; my tastebuds are gone. My nose is thick and the scents I receive are all thick and confused. My eyesight blurs but I am not afraid of failing; I will not fail, like this. I drive late at night like I always do, trying to figure myself out, afraid of the wilderness and the wolves on the side of the road, safe in the womb of hot, organic sprawl of life; there is not enough time, when you’re thinking, to think for yourself. Everything is already spoken for. I rolled joints because girls prefer to smoke joints and when there, in the alleyways, so disassociated, super cool, they would come to me, and smoke, and it would be easy. It made me sick to my stomach, but no sicker than anything else. Somewhere out there, was someone to love, an honorable love, a virtuous and timeless love – but such love has eluded me. It is the dishonest lovers that do not ever sleep alone. So I am drinking and smoking a joint sometimes and I begin wearing caps and sunglasses to cover my face and to hide me from the light, because I am incredibly sensitive, and I do not even have to act disassociated – I am truly disassociated. Disassociation is disgusting. I am removed from the world, utterly satiric and depressed, a sentient being confused to the brink of extinction. It is true that a perfect program would have no reason to exist, thank goodness that we are not perfect. They cut off Turing’s balls and killed him. They sodomized Lawrence in the Arabian desert and then immortalized a made-up name. It is not an honest sort of existence. Honest creatures simply kill, or do not kill, and no one ends up a castrato. It was the song of the castrato that first terrified me and I have been looking over my shoulder ever since. It is the sound of the death of the last of the dinosaurs, of three and a half billion years of pure mutation in space and utter destruction – and then, upon a flattened earth, all the monuments – it beseeches itself – we are heartbroken. It has broken our hearts. I flipped a table in an asshole’s face like something from a gangster film and was thrown out by a bouncer. I did not even feel pain in my spine, I was dumb to the numbness that spread like a delta of silence throughout my body, and so I felt suspiciously stronger. Strength felt so good – I just couldn’t believe it.

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