I search deep in my soul for the former demon or angel that made me believe I was a creative genius.
I beg that sweet bastard to come out and play. I stare inward, only the whites of my eyes visible to the crowd around me. I barely hear the rumble of
their collective discontent. Stray words from the outside world stumble unto the implant on the right side of my head.
“Drugs?” “Dead?” “Asshole?” “Ambulance?”
I rise from my stupor, hands raise in a V… and I speak loudly, with a firm vibrance to my tenor.
“To see you, I do not. To hear you, I do not. To understand you, I do not. What use is a man’s understanding, if he cannot understand himself? These are not the droids you’re looking for. Move along, citizen… move along…”
The rumbling continues. Hands grab me. The sweeter tone of the fairer sex echoes loudly.
“You poor man! Let us help you!”
I shrug my shoulders, and gyrate wildly about. A dervish of escapist whim. Flailing untowards the night, with my eyes closed, and my ears turned off…
I’m more aware of who I am the government that seeks to control me.
Even as I fail in my creativity, this aborted fetus of a rant… I am more capable in this broken ability of mine than the government is in itself.