Hayden Smith
As I absorbed the pill that thins the blood and massages the skin with millions of spider’s legs, as I contorted my spine into a replica of the Second World War, as I bent down to deliver a kiss of contention to the filthy ground, I finally was enlightened to the cosmic vibrations of the universe.
Energy is the product of a broken home, the part of deadbeat dad being adapted for the big screen by yours truly, the silver screen projector and reflector, supporter and detractor (director). At the base of my head is a window, a secretive cave where the Projectionist, unburdened by reality and corruption, performs grotesque scenes of gratuitous (free of charge) nudity and brutal violence, beaming his story into my eyes, leaving me to consent to his twisted and demented views. Although my shallowness has yet to be explored, it is no more important than it was when I walked directly up to Juliet and tossed her over the actual and metaphorical balcony.
Wherever the exploited are being exploited, I’ll be there.
I’ve noticed that my eyes have begun to glaze over, causing the light to shy away from face, giving myself the gait of a man who walks in the dark, with the dark, never bumping his head. Are we so desensitized to the dark? Are we not the pale-skinned and white-haired? Why do we wander into the dark, expecting the light to remain in reserve, expecting the light to bend to our will? With the artificial light being projected into my head, how could I ever have noticed that the walls around me were slowly closing in? When I discovered that the path I was walking was from and not to, I quickly spat on my knees and cried.
Blinders on the face, acolytes of wax and no wick(ed).
Ladies and Gentleman, we would not be so fascinated by the screen if ugliness and gluttony did not reflect. My mind created, projected, and absorbed the exaggerated genius of itself. The Projectionist will forever be my biggest virtue and vice. Stomping on the gas and the brake in the same instance, I could always tell that we were not moving forward. Progress, my friends, is neither earned nor a natural occurrence of the universe, but rather the unsigned check of the generations before us. The time has come when it should be cashed or torn to shreds. The Projectionist argues that he is rightfully entitled to some of the check, and I am in a unique position of being both supporter and dissident to his assertion.
Hands, firm and surrounding. Broken monitors, silent and confounding.
What the humble people of planet earth forgot was that we are what we created. That our greatest weakness is the ability to escape. Humans, in my reality, are no longer hunters but the submissive body of fickleness and fat, ready to be molded into the self-destructive species that we were always intended to be. I am the captain of this ship, completely incapable of turning the boat around. My own incompetence and lack of ethical values exudes the scent of a man who only ever slept with his eyes closed. My own artistry and nuance were sweated out over those moist days of summer, writing screenplays with vigor and passion, scribbling out narratives of trust and resolve under the timid desk lamp.
Were the old ever as deliberate as the new?
At the premiere of the end of the world, I still felt those cosmic vibrations. However, I also felt something else . . . I felt my own pulse. Or, rather, I didn’t feel a single thing. Too many years with that pill and the blood thins out and evaporates, leaving a fat and fickle body of inertia behind it. I do not move, I only reflect or project.
I am not body, I am not soul, I am the lie that cameras show.