Open Your Eyes

Renown. I just wanted to use that word. Don't know why. Or maybe I do. Just seemed like an exceptional way to start off an essay. Swaying back and forth in my chair, in a trance, staring at the words, moving back and forward, side to side, in anticipation of my next words. Am I that interesting--that I want to hear what I'm going to say before I say it? Think it? But don't I know what I'm going to say? Think. That's strange, like a dirty birdy. Except I'm not dirty and definitely not a bird. I'm not in a mothball-smelling bed, laying there as some hulking lady hovers over me with a sledgehammer. Thank God. She has a hankering for knees it seems. Or seemed. But, you see, that never happened. Nothing to see here folks.
 
Keep on with your daily activities, reading things that are meant to thrill, or horrify? Wires sliding out from the box set before you, pulling out, seeking, finding your flesh, eyes, ears. They burrow in. But if you open your eyes now, you don't see anything. Though, you can almost feel when they make contact and enter, slowly, deeply. The glow beyond these cords magnifies, radiating event after event, flowing into mind and little by little switching on and off--switches. You may never notice the results of what this has brought about, or you may notice instantly. But before you know it, you can't get up. You want your drinks brought to you, and your food. And you consume. More. Your body starts to ache, and you're sure it's something. Right? Something real. Because it hurts. But the TV is still broadcasting, now digital! And you watch. Your eyes glowing, the surface flickering with the constant data (consent data) streaming across the airwaves, out through the tube, or isn't it now a flatscreen? What are airwaves? And those invisible tendrils are boring ever deeper, gaining more leverage. They hold you captured, wanting more data, more dopamine, to satiate your hunger. The food is no longer good, you want something more synthetic, something more artificial. The drinks that would have tasted like medicine a few months ago now taste like the best things you've ever consumed. They last longer and all dangers have been removed. Aren't they great? The taste is out of this world. Right? 
 
Before you know it, you're in the corner, the room splashed and smeared with a glistening propaganda. You look around. You can't step in it. But the door is on the other end of the room. Should you just jump in?
 
No.
 
Wait. You've waited all this time. What's a little more?
 
And as you wait your skin sags, melting to the earth. Gravity takes hold on the heavy meat and pulls. You notice scales and dryness. Your skin cracks and stretches. But the paint is almost dry. Just a little longer. That door holds everything you need. And at some point, you realize that, as you step into all this never drying noise, all messy with stains, that it makes no difference any longer. What will you do when you get to that door? Not much. But you still take a step, and another. It's all around and all over you. But the door...
 
Hope.
 
You kneel and then wait. But no one comes to help. You're engulfed. Then you lie down. And fall asleep. The door was so close. Your fingers can almost touch the knob. You'll get it tomorrow. But when you try to lift your head you're stuck.
 
You close your eyes. 
 
WCM

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