The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part VI).

Sadness. Madness. Badness. No marshmallow splat. No prismatic spray of crystals. No flash of light. Just warped reality and shifting turns. Melting rainbows. Dripping buildings. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bubbling. Like a witch's cauldron, and this is her twisted spell of vengeance. It is all gone away, puddles. Gone, then.

The sight is more eerie than Deserted Town. Because no town. Just dust. Painted red. Dust and pulverized rock. Miles upon miles. Streeeeeeetch. Dark red heavens. Stained with the blood of the innocents. Pale moon, even. Tinted pink. Nothing for miles. Flat expanse. Wait. No. Something. There. In the distance. Runnnnn. It is a building. Large. Very large. A cathedral? Yes. And blue. A sharp contrast between puddle of azure and sea of crimson. And glass, at that. What is it? How is it? Creeeeaaaaaaak. If glass doors made sound, it would be that. Cautions. Warning sirens in my brain. Never trust anything where you cannot see its brain. I step inside.

Mirrors. Everywhichwhere. Slam! If glass doors made sound, it would be that. Trapped in a Pharaoh's tomb. No choice but to venture forth into the unknown. Mirrors. Smoke and mirrors. Up. Down. Allaround. Mind-bending. Not mending. But odd, reflections. Not normal. Something not quite right. Makes me feel awful. Sick, even. I look at another twisted. My appearance is normal. Wait. No. It can't be. There is something amiss. I cannot place my finger on it. Then, like train wreck. I am not me. I am a collage of everyone. All I look to. All I value. Awful tremors. Another mirror. I am fat. Ugly. Hideous. Third. Stupid. Childish. Immature. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. All terrible. Fears. My fears. The eighth one. I cannot bear to look. There is a severe lack of something. People. Friends. I am abandoned. And I feel as well. Where is everyone? Why have I only seen you? I feel fat and ugly. I am fat and ugly. I feel like a collage of everyone around me. I am a collage of everyone around me. Deeper and deeper into the cornmaze of mirrors. Running. Crying. Sobbing. Avoiding the mirror's gaze of self-depreciation. Running. Running. Crying. Sobbing. Where am I? What is wrong with this place? Clearheadedness has left for lunch. Into a ball. Crying. Feeling worthless. I am worthless.

Dawn approaches. Flaming red sun raises its flag of victory over the horizon. Heating the barren landscape. The Glass Cathedral. I am still trapped. In a maze of my own insecurities. Lost. Lost. Still teary eyed. Avoiding my reflection as though it were the Plague. Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. And I do. Collapse. Hopeless. Despairing. Then it dawns. Glass. It shatters. Glass. Glass. That is all it is. Glass. Breakable. I rise like the sun. I face a mirror. I am a collage of everyone. Crack! Pain in the fist. Cracked reflection. Normal reflection. I am fat. Ugly. Hideous. Crack! Not anymore. I am abandoned. Crack! Ouch. Crack! Crack! Crack! Tintinnabulation of broken glass is music to my ears.

I hit a wall. Paper thin. Shatters like a sheet of paper. Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom!

Wall after wall after wall. We all fall down. Laughing giddily. Haaaaaaaaaaa! I am not sliced to ribbons by falling glass. Miraculous. I stand over the rubble of the Glass Cathedral. Good riddance. Spit. Hope. Like oxygen.

Like a spectre, you rise. Out of the Glass Cathedral of Despair. What?

Well played, Sir.

Thank you.

Have you any idea where you are going?

No. Do you?

Not in the slightest.

And with a devious grin, you take off like a shot. Booooooooooooooooooooom! Running. Again. A wild goose chase. "Wait!" I call. There is something familiar about the way you look. I cannot place my finger on it. Ah, well. No matter. How to leave this wretched place is another matter. Ah, well. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.

I wonder who you are.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part V).

Splatter. Smatter. Shatter. Marshmallow splat again. Through the oil figure of a town. Ghostly, in the sense of abandonment. I stand. There is something strange about this place. Apart from no one existing. There seems to be a whisper echoing through the town. Desertedly. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... Why, and how? No one here, voicing their thoughts of a brain unknown. Never trust a thing that you can see where it keeps its brain. But I wonder, nonetheless. And winder, wandering through the streets. Searching for something that I cannot define. What am I looking for?

Loud siren. Bee-whoop! Bee-whoop! Bee-whoop! Bee-whoop! Does it ever stop? What is it signaling? Nerve-wracking. Body-wracking. Spasms throw me to the ground. From what? It is a mystery. How. How. Echoing fades. Siren gone. In the stark silence, I hear the whisper. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... Eerily clear. Where is it coming from?

I stand again. No marshmallow splat this time. Scraped knees. Bloody elbows. Leaking ketchup onto my skin. I wipe it away. No bandage. No point. I remember what I am looking for. I know how it feels, looking on the bright side... I try to pay no attention to it, but it is everywhere and nowhere at once. Splish. Splash. Slosh. Crack. Thunder? But rain, most certainly. Pouring in cats and dogs. Lots of them. I run for the nearest building, seeking shelter from the deluge of the cloud tears. Something has made them sad. ...When there is no bright side.

Inside, I begin to shake myself to rid of wet water. But I am dry. No residue. No wet. Not even marks. How strange. Cherche pour l'affiche d'une fille. What? Why? I am ready to leave. But it dawns, in the sky, that I do not know how to leave. So I look for the poster of a girl. Door to door, like a girl scout searching for her missing friend. But there is no one. Finally, the end. The rain is finished. No more tears. Poster of a girl. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... I do not know where to go from here. Blowing in the wind. What? That is...?

And there it is. The poster of a girl. Like a tumbleweed, pirouetting across the street. I give chase. There is nothing significant about it. Blue eyed, brown, shoulder length haired girl. Perfect features. Her face, at least. All that is shown. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, catching into a wildflower blaze. Who is this? Then she speaks. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite...But why are you running from yourself? I drop her, and she blows away. You. Where are you?

And then I see you. At the edge of town. Running. What are you looking for? Why are you running? Clearheadedness abandons its child outside my mind. Fablishwongledook. Who? Can't I stop and sing? This is insane. I think? Why are you? How are you? Existing, I mean. Fantastic. You didn't answer my question. Hey, come back! A conversation in my head. How, this town? That beach? Those woods? That painting? That music? What is this? Then I realize my mouth has trapped my words in a bear trap of teeth. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... Wait!" I call. And miracles happen. Angels sing. You stop. Turn. Face me. I catch up. What you say shocks me more than these realms. If this is the life, why does it feel so good to die today? Grow up and blow away. Where am I going? I do not know. Am I dying? Not really. Who am I? It doesn't matter. What does matter is what you decide matters.

The city stretches. Longer, longer, pushing me away from you. Back to before you turned. You turn back and continue running. No, you are not. The city is still stretching. How do I stop? You fade into distant dust. What was that? Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.

I wonder who you are.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part IV).

Canticle, santicle, panticle. Through the river and over the woods. Between thorny roses and sweet smelling sunflowers. Upon closer examination, they aren't sunflowers at all. For there is no sun. They are shadowflowers. Thriving on shadow. Perpetual moonlight. Dashing through the forest of plants. Trying to keep up with you. But you run, run, run. And I try, try, try. How do you manage?

I jump over streams and push thornwhips aside. I try to clear a log, but my foot catches in a nook. I brace myself, expecting a facefull of thorny terror and eyefulls of sand. But the impact doesn't come. I open my eyes. I'm falling, again. Tumbling, freewheeling, through an endless diamond sky. Not sky. Something. But not sky.

And everything comes crashing halt. Sans pain and ouch. How? Closed eyes on marshmallow impact open like gates. There you are. On a giant piece of canvas. Ice-skating? But paint. Somehow. Feet like bristles sweep, causing ripples of coloured liquid ice to spread. Are you painting? Qu'est-ce que vous faites? Je ne sais pas. Je veux savoir.

Over I go, stepping on rippling flower petals of reds, blues, greens, and inbetweens. Is it solid? I think. Curious eyes turn towards the horizon. You've finished this painting of silken imagery. Before astounded eyes, a box appears with a simple stroke of a bristlefoot. You step. It grows. Tall. Tall. You jump. "Wait!" I call. But you don't hit. Not even marshmallow soft splat. You fall. In, in, in, leaving rippling prisms in your wake. I climb and jump. How strange, this world is. I think of enigma-you. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.

I wonder who you are.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part III).

The sea. From the music to the sea. What an interesting switch. Oh well. Not as if I don't enjoy it. But then, the distance. Out in the sea. What's that floating in the water? Oh, Neptune's only daughter. Branches breaking. The hiss of wind blown sand. I glance behind me, only to discover a myriad of prodigious trees. Palm, Spruce, Pine, Cedar, Beachwood, Willow, and Rose. And then there's you again. Running into the mixed forest.

I spring up. Dash to the edge of the forest. And there I find a sign. Scribbled? Scrambled. Splattered. Reads "If you go there, you're gone forever. If I go there, I lose my way. If we stay here, we're not together. Anywhere is nowhere."

Don't know what to make of this. I look at the ocean. Where is Neptune's only daughter? She has vanished. I look back at the forest. Hiss of sand blown wind. Thump. Thump. Thump. The trees lay down. A sand path materializes, following you. Wham. Whump. Whoomph. Behind me. The ocean is boxing up, shrinking into a compact box. Whamph. Lid closed. There's Neptune's daughter. A black void behind her. Snatches the box, and vanishes into the void, taking the sky with her. All that remains is the forest.

I don't know where I am anymore.

And then I spy you, dashing in between the trees. Looking everywhichway. But dashing, nonetheless. "Wait!" I call. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.

I wonder who you are.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part II).

I am stuck in minor chords. In between bar lines, sharps thrive. Turning notes into a cacophony of sorrow and terror. I am hanging by a thread. No. It is just a crescendo. It slowly dwindles. Snaps. I am falling, between staccatos and diminuendos. How I am avoiding stabby-sharps, I do not know. How I am avoiding impalement, I do not know. And suddenly I am floating. Flying. Levitating. Is this lucid dreaming? Is this Bohemia? I do not know where I am anymore.

I am lost.

Suddenly, there is someone. Running along the bar lines. Running away. Leaping over notes. But running, away. Away. "Wait!" I call. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.

I wonder who you are.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part I).

Lying in a grassy lawn, surrounded by the chattering masses. Yet, encased in a bubble of my own, impervious to the many distractions of mankind. For I am reading. Reading, but not comprehending. Sleep has begun to take me. Words swirl on misty pages, an epitaph for my consciousness. Oh, flow, Morpheus, slow. Words of twilight swim, goblins, and carnivals. Or is it a dream? Am I already asleep? I do not know.

Clandestine Secrets.

When did we become so worried about individuality? The sheer number of ideas floating around the average man's mind is astounding. But how many of them are unprecedented? With six billion people in the world, how many could possibly be original? We claim to be individual in almost every aspect of our lives. We say that we have original styles, original mannerisms, original anythings and everythings.

You may have thought of something new, something not yet known to this world. But chances are, someone else in another part of the world had the same idea at the exact same time as you. And chances are they've patented it before you. Because that's all that really matters anymore when it comes to originality. It doesn't matter who thought of it first, it's who patented it first. If you happen to have the same idea or thought as someone else, and are not cognizant of the shared concept, several troubles may arise. If you voice said idea after it has already been stated by someone else, you are called a liar. A cheater. A plagiarizer. A mimic. Simply because you had the same idea. It seems that's all we are focused on anymore, individuality.

The sheer number of possibilities each day holds boggles my mind. The number of experiences I could have daily is innumerable, astonishing. And I'm here, typing a blog. We live trapped in an infinity matrix, living the same moments over and over. We see the same things and think the same things. We react the same way to each situation. Every day follows a gentle flow through a series of peaks and troughs. Each focus of every day is to get through said day, just to live another day. Occasionally, one may break out of this matrix, stepping out of their comfort zone, and they may start to do things sporadically. But what of the matrix, then? Have you not made it a habit of doings things sporadically? Of reacting differently to each situation?

I'm not saying I have all the answers, nor am I saying I know how to break out of this infinity matrix. I don't know how to force myself into seeing the potentials of each moment. But I do that it doesn't require fitting a mold. I do not need to watch what I say or do for fear of shaking things up. I have no need, nor do I want to temper my life to fit the expectations of a corrupted society.