“Composed by compulsion, resisting my death by these waves.
Reduced by crescendos I’ve fallen through, winding up here.
The slap of the hull on the sea in these tirades sends me
Into hipnotic cascades. Never before so crashed.
A wave of crashing shadows falling over me. Here, untrue.
In this boat there is a box and in it my gift. My link to heavens and the abyss where everything is conscious that I perceive and can imagine. This vissistude of consciousness is what I’ve struggled through, since the start of all this.
Watching what Ophelia endured, what she became in its absence, in its window of vacancy. Some unnatural anger, lying, killing, eating. Human being undone. I’d expect to be done. Having been “cleared” of the rage, cleansed of the flood of adrenaline push that’s the final push of the Rhoma Cancer (the reproction of dying microbial tech in the brain that fixes itself to the amygdala and feeds it’s regenerates off the impulses of the body in fits of extreme emotions such as rage) I was resolved and reset. But I’m ever the human. And my “clearing” was not of my volition. Yet still, a fear sets in. Rhoma the gift of humanity and Ivy’s condemnation.
There it is in its box, with its gun to administer. And several viles. Enough Rhoma for months. I’d gone through the phases of withdrawal, and the maddening, violent internal chaos. Not as immense as Ophelia encountered. Only the shakes in the fall of sunlight, and the desperation and the physical agony. And the moments of insanity. And in it, in the throes of it, I had the break. This was the moment I feared and anticipated. It happened early in. Before the True light, what did they call it first, virtual reality. I was nineteen when I met my own Vethiver. My own maniacal voiced impulse. Perhaps because I absorbed him, I understood madness and how to reason with him. But I was on Rhoma even then. He came to me, as waking as awareness can ever be.
Maybe I wasn’t as susceptible or hooked as she. Maybe I was stronger, or perhaps weaker. Maybe I could have stopped her, talked her down when she grew furious. Maybe if we talked more about our experience with the Complex.
We were an idealization of animosity, we were anger suppressesed, incarnate. But she, by all I fell in love with, fell violently into the spell of the virulent necessity to eradicate the men that threatened her, that punctured her calm, and she indulged in the sacrifice of commen anger to the God of war.
Ivy. She always had a way with pushing impulse. That’s how she crushed the world. She was the Immaculate we adored, and more so for the fact that she was the God of men, by man. She was sweet destruction. She was us, as a conglomerate of the whole of plugged in a personage.
I wanted to be a part of her again. She was lost. Evicted from our perpetuating hell on earth, and she was the fist to the fall, but she didn’t bring about it. In truth, she evoked a solution. She coaxed a fall into an insurrection we’d all been watching in legislation and murderous execution, hand in hand. Domestic war.
That’s all the sprawl before her, and what her programs inspired and compelled in us remains to be the product of our ever present humanity. We are the species that hungers for blood, our blood. And the fall of the species is sweet as we of cultures at this peak of civilization realized. The human race is one with a violent destination.
I stare into this box and hunger for Rhoma’s elation. It’s all there. Even a calibrator that I found in the keep of the ship. But I need no calibrator. Vethiver speeds the language of the tech.
Vethiver knew Ivy, ungodly, as Vethiver knew her. The vision. The Great Black Bird.
I could not close the box, but sat with it open. Knowing what was there. Serene exultation in the abyss. There were gods anymore. We all knew. This was the end, where gods and men and women parted. When human, Man, became its own deity.
Here in this box, I was more human, more powerful and mindful, and faster and free. I got to be the only one, my own God in complete understanding and integration of everything I’d see.
If, only If I just picked up this gun and simply let the cartridge sit on the lip of the magazine, it would pull in forward and charge itself. It would load and calibrate the macrocells to my blood type, and my impulse frequency by the way it lay calmly in my fingertips. And it would hum gently in the moment it saw me, as a being, it hummed some sweet melody, whether it was the collection of macrocells in unison, formatted to my brainwaves, I assume, or the machine itself, understanding completely who and what I am, seeing me as well in the temporary eternity what God meets man and man meets infinity.
That is the melody.
Do I pick it up?”