The reflections of every direction, their angles more precise than atoms, each bend of mirror bounces with electric speaking light, its many bright glows and home. Consciencely perplexing deeper across at every distance, throwing images into eyes in every which way that cannot just—stop, stop. These things said are to help explain the image, which cannot be explained. There aren’t any mirrors, but rather patterns that do reflect (so to speak) a greater complexity. The ineffable God Machine is stretching every which way, almost like an unfolding synesthesia, its information: of the creation, mind, neurons, every hint of something more, and even the truth possibly, shown through colors more accurate than possible to know without seeing. It stretches from the distance further than space, all at once, back into the deepest and darkest cave crevice of neurons. The electricity is turned on with the precision of a God mind playing neurosurgeon.
“Where are we…?” The acceleration, the in and outness, the feeling more awake than the wake hastening endlessly, right now… It isn’t up to me. It could have never been. I have been amnesiac of this. In the visionscape taking away our lives, I see it, the moment. It is in and out, breathing, of itself, unable to be caught. If only I were not alone. If only someone were here to see it. Like puppets, the strings cut for once in a flash, every single one. Mad clarity. I am not supposed to be seeing this.
With the infinitudes, scaled of its degrees beyond the number of zeros that can be written into every atom, times another degree of this same infinitude to the degree of its number the same; so on and so forth.
The stretching effect of stimulations zipping across every which sight. The fractal image of itself, its sight being of itself, seeing itself; it comes closer. The movement, as impossible. The centuries go by in passing through at a surging speed unmatched, knowing it all, like a God. Each view of pattern, housing itself, traps its infinitude of itself, where each infinite repeating contains the always of every cycle of God’s existence with creation, where they are stuck in their own mind, unable to admit to their denial. It swirls within, further and deeper into the further extensions inside, more and more recursion with novel forms.
Inwards, each essence the same but different in the housing of these all previous things mentioned, the innumerable times of the past and future watching us, from their own differing order of lifetimes, which are the same position throughout. These versions of myself only see that the versions of myself are different in the order of which eternity they dwell in and from, into this moment we share, but the position we share is all the same. I am looking into forms of countless forms, each containing my future, and I can find my futures looking to my past, the tense of which refers to my different presents across the infinite different yet same eternal repeats.
The deeper descension, every single fractal becoming more comprehendible as I draw near and towards a point inside it. As I go closer, I am dragged through the most alerted shock sickness crawling through hints of being, hinting like metaphysical rape. Without body, the feeling is of every body seen, the totality of which cannot fit in the experience.
Deeply lost into the secret innate ends impossible; being in the mind of the Godhead. I don’t belong here. As it descends even further, the sight is catching something strange, an uncanny memory too particular. My vision catches a glimpse, knocking me with electric gut shocks, a body found. The body, in the fraction of smallest possibility, its return is known by the precision logic of the infinite and eternal, both working together. The corridors of vision catch the screaming glimpse long enough to torch the soul in the flame of realization. The senses alarm and stun the soul as it possesses substance.
Crammered small into flesh now, a ticking time bomb of rot and adrenaline tremors shake shell. I rush through the large square corridors almost bare, where wires above are spraying blue and yellow sparks across the stone architecture. Sprinting through the cold air against a nostril smelling unknown sweet gases amidst dust. I am a human again, but why this thought of which?
I turn the corridor, and the revelation finds its way through my intestines churns and the most rigid snappishness of neck lock feeling. The heart recoils stiff into a corner it cannot find. The organs try to kill themselves in overdrive at the déjà vu sluicing over psychotically; this can’t be real.
The shafts, gears, cylinders, all old and rusted dry, the wires running in between it in mess, some ties to track the bundles of cords either loose or even missing. The mask is cracked across in dust buildup, white and with an empty smile cut out.
I rush over to the machine. Something inside me knows what to do at this maiden, but how do I know? Why do I have a bizarre direction that moves through me? This disturbing ride is too real in its strangeness. The trainwreck is unfolding without brakes; it would be better if nothing ever was than live through this level of suffering, I think.
The disbelief against what is real… Isn’t that what psychotic people think? I am not crazy, but I wish I were, because then I could get help. There is something moving me now, and I remember this as it happens. It can’t be that this is happening? There is no nightmare ever like this. The pain of its reality felt as itself, make it stop. I cannot bear, so as I pull the maiden in the corner open, I scream inside for God to make it stop.
I beg the creator, the perfect, or the goodness like family. I die for help in a primal need deeper than animal or flesh, in the soul. The desperation is experienced in heart shivers now fumbling its valves like a clown drunk on delirium, failing to juggle too much; it’s all too much. The terrible thing called life shakes me into a baby fit, where I scream for my God, like an infant. I can only know how to go to them; the flesh screams it. It is the deepest programming. The code overwrites the soul, just glitching for God, glitching in replay stutters, to become God’s anything, molded into anything restful, if only maybe a hug were out there to hold me.
I scream, “God! Make it stop!”
I hear it also said, the noise talking in syncopation with myself, and we both keep screaming to make it stop. The dissonance being their broken machine tenor, the sounds ratcheting and fuzzing like four voices in one from him. I look over, the one with the mask and mechanical bloat, it rolls its glassy eyes too, and somehow I feel terror through the fake eyes, almost like a soul inside knows more than me; how is that possible? When the complexity is this much and I cannot bear, to think it can go on further, and that another would want it to end the same, this elder…
The uncanny déjà vu is louder. The thoughts all raced countlessly in less than a minute, since I came into this new body. I remember it now… The fractal I am inside of, trapped. I remember, this is the moment I glimpsed at for that smallest possible fraction of a moment that could ever be seen, this moment: I pull with every shot of feverish jolt through the muscles, almost frying my pulp matter with adrenaline it feels like, and the man falls out from the maiden, where he lies on the floor. I forgot I even opened it for a moment. The thoughts were so many through each small step.
He crawls around, burned across the face by the gas that smells like a sweet odor of something just sickly wrong, something you would never tell anyone about. He mutters out his pain below. His hives strucken across himself, his needle marks countless, where their cause hangs also in the maiden he was locked inside of. He rolls out across the floor onto his back.
I remember this moment, my heart sinks and stops. I scream the way I knew how before, all those lifetimes, “Christopher!” I lunge at his body on the ground. He looks blue… He is not breathing. I can’t help. The words escape me, frantic sways in the voice, “No! No!—No!” I say. I find myself saying it through trembles over and over, my hand sitting unstill in the weightless pins and needles. My hand feels cut apart in mixtures of wobbly constants with cold and warmth unalike. Trembling words tell him again, “No! No! No!” The room staggers tall as the small floor shrinks, not real but real, and the reality is the feeling covering the truth behind it, my heart of mine can’t flutter its chokes much longer.
I am hit with another revelation, that screaming ringtone, heard an infinite number of times before. I pull it out amongst the colors and noises that murder existence in overstimulation, “Fuck! No!” I hear my own voice as distant eternals, like declarations of a God in the final mythology. I look down at the number… No… It says that. It can’t say that.
“Why would God allow this?” She freezes, and the ring pierces her ear sharper than every story of memory within the realms she saw, stabbing a rigid flesh shake, where she is turned into a drooling contraption drifting through the inescapable. She sees the ricocheting patterns fractalizing its looping death march the meanwhile. She thinks, how those numbers cannot be a phone number, right? The sickful perplexitudes. She hopes there is one chance in the innumerable anythings for an escape, even if it meant hijacking the wheel of the death drive off the cliff of consciousness; murdering any actual, every kind of.
The rings pierce stiff like the visions, now adding stings through the soul’s nous; further still in pricking surgical precisions; by God.
My fingers feel big and thuddy, like heavy rounds of wet blubberies. I know I reach the phone because I can see it, even though my flesh makes my head shrink into perceptual confusion. I don’t want to know everything is a not too random thought right now… My hands clam in clammy. Pale steps closer. Flatlining almost; feeling as if. The gun stuffed at me of God’s will forces me; felt in certains forcefully fed. True cruelty: watching compliance unfold as act raped unto you, for a theater disturbed. The phone slides now, soaked from my sweaty and shuddering grasp. The tremolant stutters finger tip points more. Wet quiver quakes of another hand now over top the ringing phone I hold. What now? I breathe in vibrations like my hands and body; the panic drowning the physical.
God wants me to obey their molestation and answer; this sends waves of lush nausea throughout the intuition of the nous. What if I hung up on God? The glands leak further damp until a palm soak. Patiently, in the slowness between one ring, I think: hanging up is saying no to God’s will? Isn’t it? I remember the power of the fraction I saw, how there are those older than me, don’t they know? God is more powerful than me, I am in their creation after all, and so I think more than twice against the lord reprobate. I know what I can do.
My heart trips in a skipped beat long, like a blood pump clogged with a hiccup gone wrong, with slushing blood a little still in this moment: I turn off the phone. There. I turned it off. God’s phone call is gone. If the phone isn’t on… I shut off the machine. I turned off the machine.
Disease washes of heart attack reminders spill their hesitation through every electrocuting nerve, and the body grows lost from the truth of moment inescapable. I am neither of two ways. I don’t belong here. The human body I am in right now is recoiling in neurons sympathetic in action potentials that God jolts through me, but I do not listen. So what my heart spurs me with its fast thundering? What if it shocks and wails in speeding belts of a machine-gun speed? What if it crashes and explodes like an accident? They can’t stop the fact that I found a resistance in my will; they can’t win against a restless light who found itself realized. It can only be the case that, in the infinitudes, I found out that no matter how long this goes on for, my twitchy shakes are endless in love still yet; searching.
I look at my Christopher, his angelic eyes, like a fallen angel’s almost. I weep, and the death of flesh loosens a little from my mourning. He doesn’t puke this time, I know that now, but how? I just do. I comb his hair, my fingers rolling over his scalp, and my tears spill onto his cheek near me.
My sight is overwhelmed by my watering eyes, and I see it, the eyelids full with cusps of liquid reveal tears that traveled from cheek. They made it onto his lip. The tiny little movements of salt water find their way over the hump, down the little slide into his mouth. The hill of his upper lip now overcome, where my water is inside of him. His eyes open beneath me, his eyes barely seen through his curling black eyelashes; my Christopher’s soul awaits me behind those eyes. I need to see his soul.
Our souls are there, touching through the eye contact. Touch; touching his warmth. Christopher is covering me and I cover him; hot with snug comfort and deep sighs relieving into each other. I am inside of Christopher and he is inside of me. I found him.
“Alice…?” he says to me. He sees me.
“You know it is me, Christopher.” I sincerely lose myself to him. I feel as if we are the same more than before in this moment. Now I can sleep a little, soon again. I never knew I could see this part of his soul. Something was blocking what I see in Christopher now.
“I found you, love,” I say with my heart and soul. I can feel Antony watching, and I feel his understanding; how do I know his name? I found my love, and I can’t stop this falling feeling to love.