Across Reality

I think. I’ve the need to gouge my eyes out but lack the ability. So, I think. The last thing available to me, essentially a brain in a jar. If I could write my thoughts, I would. But I think, in hopes that some connectedness exists between minds, perhaps through time or across realities. Something within me reassures; my thoughts will be written. Somewhere, sometime. Almost like I feel the author’s fingers typing now, that feeling reassures that I can commune. With somebody. Finally.

I don’t know when all of this started. I know very little in fact. I know only what my body allows me to know. Or, rather, those in control of it.

At the base of the throat, in the little gap above the rib cage and between the clavicles, rests an embedded demon. A carrier of disease so deadly that you’d wish you’d lost everything. I haven’t lost everything and I like to think the others haven’t either, but I’ve no way to tell. A heart shaped piece of metal sits in that gap, stitched into the skin, the arteries, the nerves. More heart than my own. It applies a constant cold, ice to the veins, a perpetual headache, and god forbid anybody ever opens it. But they do.

I wake up, not of my own accord, but of the heart’s. I see who it chooses. I go where it takes me. I eat what it hungers for. I speak what it wants to communicate.

The immense hole within me, carved out by this automation, I’ve filled with hate. If only I could cry at the guilt I feel for it. I’ve had much time to think, and hate has no place anywhere. But hate resides within me. For those without the heart.

They knew not what they did. Starting as an idea, a solution, to equalize, everybody loved the embedded heart. But ideas have consequences. And in our blind endeavor for equality we should’ve anticipated those who just wanted to exploit it. To rise above. And leave the rest of us...equal.

Not until my body betrayed me did I realize the nature of their deceit. And I find myself hoping others did and didn’t have the same experience. This torture I endure, surely only a demon would wish it upon another. But the thought of being the only one hurts worse. So I’ll continue thinking that others endure with me.

So many times I’ve attempted communication. But I don’t even scratch my own itches anymore. All because that heart locket embedded within the base of my throat. I see those I loved every day with no available way to reach them. Suicide comes to mind, but I feel I’ve already committed it many times over. What is worse than that? To observe and have no allowance to act? These elites created a planet of slaves, unknowing that they’d be conscious underneath. Or so I hope. I cannot be the only one. Worse than torture, worse than murder, is driving a man to suicide, and taking away his capacity to carry it out. I took for granted my freedom and am tortured for it by death’s preferability.

I resort to all I have left, thought. And I hope I can project across time or space or through reality. Perhaps one may even write these words as fiction, but at least my story will be told. I reach out to the collective unconscious in my last effort for communication. Spare yourself the pain I’ve suffered.

You’ve no idea how important autonomy is to the spirit. This slavery I inhabit is a step further. My brain may as well exist in a jar. You’ve no idea what I’d give to wiggle my fingers of my own accord again. Just once. Or to choose a single word I speak. But the paradox, I’ve nothing to give. All that remains is my consciousness and the morbid faith in death. They could’ve at least lobotomized me.

Don’t be naïve. Someone will always exploit those who choose equality. I warn you as an obligation. To atone for the hate in my heart.