PSYCHOLOGICAL APOCALYPSE

Panic sets in. My breathing is rapid and shallow, I can barely breathe. Since I have just sucked god-knows-what into my lungs, this can be extremely painful. The people around me find my distress funny. They must be reading my mind, and find something amusing about my psychosis. I need to leave this place, so I can weather this storm alone, but they say I am in no condition to go anywhere. A half an hour nightmare bus ride and I could be home, but instead I am trapped for hours with these sadistic monsters.

We I final escape and make it home, I throw myself on my bed, but I cannot sleep. I flop around on my mattress like a landed fish on a boat. The wrinkles on my sheet feel like razors on my flesh. I glance fearfully towards the window; I sense someone is watching me. I bury my face against the pillow holding my breath, then look towards the window again. Every mistake and misdeed of my past then comes to visit; each memory causes me physical pain, like a devil’s pitchfork. It is hours before I sleep.

I dream of a legion of demented doctors, who have reduced us to useless sacks of meat, having seizures and orgasms in response to any external stimulation. We are all better off without our frontal lobes, we can gibber and drool and shit whenever we like. Liberated as we all are from the tyranny of our mutated higher brains, we can truly be happy. Why do people see a lobotomy as a fate worse than death? It is because our frontal lobes tell us so, because they do not want to lose the power they have over us.

Isn’t the human race just a bunch of mutant primates with brains too big for our own good? As soon as this planet is so toxic that there is no place to shit, we will all die, choking on our own bile.

And who is to say whether our frontal lobes are dead. Maybe they keep on chattering away in the darkness, powerless to prolong our misery.