(From a collection of vignettes.)
A zombie is a being who can take a form of a human. It can recall memories, it learns from experience. It even reacts to pain yet has no consciousness. They drift through the world, blending into our society. You might be a zombie and not even know it. They are parasites which already have one hand on the steering wheel of our existence. If nothing is done they will drive humanity to extinction, leaving nothing but former echos of our lives. I've been fighting them for as long as I can remember.
It's nights like these that make me reminisce and reflect while staring into puddles on the streets. It's almost closing time, which means free food. I've been standing in front of this Starbucks for an hour now, and the girl inside keeps giving me worried looks. I suppose I look hungry- but I am not hungry for what she thinks I'm hungry for. Just food. Last time a bunch of punk kids swooped in at the last minute and took the garbage bag full of those tasty treats. You'd pay for them what, five bucks each? This city is full of vultures and their talons are taking over.
As I approached the bag which was now with the rest of the trash being brought out by the girl, she quickly turned and went back inside as if frightened. I can imagine her chest dropping with relief upon reaching safety. Her manager, an overweight man pushing forty-five with a developing bald spot, what is he asking her? “Are you okay?†To him, her inner fears are foreign and he could never do what I just did. Really step into a different person's shoes; be that bum, be that guy in the suit, be that professor, be that student who waits 'til last minute, be that man in robes who raped children, be those children. Be all of them for a little while.
I cannot name anything I love more than riding the metro. Well, one thing: killing zombies. Trains are full of them. Doors open and a party of four enter, three young women and a man. They are all stereotypically beautiful which makes them suspicious. If zombies know how to do anything, it's to take the shape of someone considered good looking. Yet even I am having trouble determining which one of them is a zombie. A minute has gone by and now I know it has to be one of the women, yet they are so similar. It's as if the zombie has convinced the other two to act and look the same as her to increase her chances of survival.
They have blonde highlights, wear miniskirts of the latest fashion. One of them has to be a model since her legs are stick thin. They don't seem to notice other people. My eyes cover their bodies for clues but I have to stop because I am utterly revolted. Tons of makeup concealing what is within. I shouldn't even assume there is anything deeper then skin. They wear faces of slight dissatisfaction, especially the slightly chubby one. Her round face tucked in to look more oval, panda-like eyes from all that eye-shadow looking with desire at her skinny friends. Their conversation is hollow which makes tracking difficult. They get off the train and I breathe from relief, as if I've been submerged in their vanity.
I get into my house and turn on the only light I have. It's a ceiling light, a bare bulb in the middle of my one room studio. After a quick snack I head for the shower. The cold water felt like hundreds of needles poking and prodding my rash. With clenched teeth I quickly attempted to get the dirt off. I remember seeing something similar to this when the police would hose down the colored and sic German Shepherds on 'em. A force much stronger than any shower-head could produce, blasting your ribs with ice cold water as you fly off hitting the wall or the pavement from impact, only to be chewed up by the dogs. I stand still thinking about it, the cold water gushing, hitting the rash on my side like daggers for hours.
Sometimes, perched on the roof of a loft somewhere in Brooklyn looking over the river, I think to myself: “Why is no one after me?†It's like the city forgot I exist. Instead of burning light-bulbs in a basement in Harlem, I am killing zombies, and no one cares. Are the people secretly cheering me on, “Let him do what we can't!†For some reason I don't feel the love and support that kind of agreement would make me feel. As I look unto this city, these towers burning lights every day and night, I think, “what a cemetery!†Lights from every room like epitaphs saying “I'm dying in this tomb everyday!†We even wear the same clothing as our deceased counterparts. The tie, the shoes, the white dress shirt. It seems we are a parody of death itself, staring it right in the face, yelling “Bring it on you bastard!â€Â
And it will. Life is after all a slow death. It's sadomasochistic by nature because we realize that there will be no one to remember us, and that all we have ever done won't matter in the end. Picture yourself ten seconds from death, consciously knowing that nothingness awaits yet comforting yourself with fantasies still. The constant beeping sound in the hospital room fades out and you realize that it is you that's fading out, not the sound. The doctor shoots you up with morphine, so you get high, exhale your last breath, and die. You may be alone, or perhaps your family is by your side, clutching now a lifeless hand, crying. They will push it out of their mind, but they'll die too.
As you zoom out to view the earth as a whole you realize that humanity is nothing more than a mold growing on round bread, constantly dying and being born again. You finally notice that there are two kinds of molds and they are competing for space. Humans giving way to zombies, then taking it back some. This cycle happens for a billion more years before earth gets uncomfortably hot. Then in three billion years you see the sun flicker and expand, the yellow ball that has been preserving life, now red and violently taking it away, burning it off, the greatest holocaust. It explodes and it all goes still for a while. Drifting far out in interstellar space in a few more billion years you can see our “home sweet home†galaxy collide with it's neighbor, their arms twisting and locking together in a suicidal embrace, creating a massive black hole deep within. Fast forward further and all that ever was is now forgotten, as the universe expands endlessly, everything drifting further and further away from everything else. That which was once a singularity now stretching distances inconceivable by our imagination. All around you is absolute darkness, cold and still. At least finally there won't be any more zombies.
Analysis of the Self
“We’re like zombies
Like the walking deadâ€Â
-Cool Hand Luke, “Zombiesâ€Â
Like the walking deadâ€Â
-Cool Hand Luke, “Zombiesâ€Â
A zombie is a being who can take a form of a human. It can recall memories, it learns from experience. It even reacts to pain yet has no consciousness. They drift through the world, blending into our society. You might be a zombie and not even know it. They are parasites which already have one hand on the steering wheel of our existence. If nothing is done they will drive humanity to extinction, leaving nothing but former echos of our lives. I've been fighting them for as long as I can remember.
It's nights like these that make me reminisce and reflect while staring into puddles on the streets. It's almost closing time, which means free food. I've been standing in front of this Starbucks for an hour now, and the girl inside keeps giving me worried looks. I suppose I look hungry- but I am not hungry for what she thinks I'm hungry for. Just food. Last time a bunch of punk kids swooped in at the last minute and took the garbage bag full of those tasty treats. You'd pay for them what, five bucks each? This city is full of vultures and their talons are taking over.
As I approached the bag which was now with the rest of the trash being brought out by the girl, she quickly turned and went back inside as if frightened. I can imagine her chest dropping with relief upon reaching safety. Her manager, an overweight man pushing forty-five with a developing bald spot, what is he asking her? “Are you okay?†To him, her inner fears are foreign and he could never do what I just did. Really step into a different person's shoes; be that bum, be that guy in the suit, be that professor, be that student who waits 'til last minute, be that man in robes who raped children, be those children. Be all of them for a little while.
I cannot name anything I love more than riding the metro. Well, one thing: killing zombies. Trains are full of them. Doors open and a party of four enter, three young women and a man. They are all stereotypically beautiful which makes them suspicious. If zombies know how to do anything, it's to take the shape of someone considered good looking. Yet even I am having trouble determining which one of them is a zombie. A minute has gone by and now I know it has to be one of the women, yet they are so similar. It's as if the zombie has convinced the other two to act and look the same as her to increase her chances of survival.
They have blonde highlights, wear miniskirts of the latest fashion. One of them has to be a model since her legs are stick thin. They don't seem to notice other people. My eyes cover their bodies for clues but I have to stop because I am utterly revolted. Tons of makeup concealing what is within. I shouldn't even assume there is anything deeper then skin. They wear faces of slight dissatisfaction, especially the slightly chubby one. Her round face tucked in to look more oval, panda-like eyes from all that eye-shadow looking with desire at her skinny friends. Their conversation is hollow which makes tracking difficult. They get off the train and I breathe from relief, as if I've been submerged in their vanity.
I get into my house and turn on the only light I have. It's a ceiling light, a bare bulb in the middle of my one room studio. After a quick snack I head for the shower. The cold water felt like hundreds of needles poking and prodding my rash. With clenched teeth I quickly attempted to get the dirt off. I remember seeing something similar to this when the police would hose down the colored and sic German Shepherds on 'em. A force much stronger than any shower-head could produce, blasting your ribs with ice cold water as you fly off hitting the wall or the pavement from impact, only to be chewed up by the dogs. I stand still thinking about it, the cold water gushing, hitting the rash on my side like daggers for hours.
Sometimes, perched on the roof of a loft somewhere in Brooklyn looking over the river, I think to myself: “Why is no one after me?†It's like the city forgot I exist. Instead of burning light-bulbs in a basement in Harlem, I am killing zombies, and no one cares. Are the people secretly cheering me on, “Let him do what we can't!†For some reason I don't feel the love and support that kind of agreement would make me feel. As I look unto this city, these towers burning lights every day and night, I think, “what a cemetery!†Lights from every room like epitaphs saying “I'm dying in this tomb everyday!†We even wear the same clothing as our deceased counterparts. The tie, the shoes, the white dress shirt. It seems we are a parody of death itself, staring it right in the face, yelling “Bring it on you bastard!â€Â
And it will. Life is after all a slow death. It's sadomasochistic by nature because we realize that there will be no one to remember us, and that all we have ever done won't matter in the end. Picture yourself ten seconds from death, consciously knowing that nothingness awaits yet comforting yourself with fantasies still. The constant beeping sound in the hospital room fades out and you realize that it is you that's fading out, not the sound. The doctor shoots you up with morphine, so you get high, exhale your last breath, and die. You may be alone, or perhaps your family is by your side, clutching now a lifeless hand, crying. They will push it out of their mind, but they'll die too.
As you zoom out to view the earth as a whole you realize that humanity is nothing more than a mold growing on round bread, constantly dying and being born again. You finally notice that there are two kinds of molds and they are competing for space. Humans giving way to zombies, then taking it back some. This cycle happens for a billion more years before earth gets uncomfortably hot. Then in three billion years you see the sun flicker and expand, the yellow ball that has been preserving life, now red and violently taking it away, burning it off, the greatest holocaust. It explodes and it all goes still for a while. Drifting far out in interstellar space in a few more billion years you can see our “home sweet home†galaxy collide with it's neighbor, their arms twisting and locking together in a suicidal embrace, creating a massive black hole deep within. Fast forward further and all that ever was is now forgotten, as the universe expands endlessly, everything drifting further and further away from everything else. That which was once a singularity now stretching distances inconceivable by our imagination. All around you is absolute darkness, cold and still. At least finally there won't be any more zombies.
I’m the bullies you hate, that you became.
![[Image: wildsky3copy.png]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v296/Renaise/wildsky3copy.png)
![[Image: Mog%20House%20Final.jpg]](http://usera.ImageCave.com/DaishiGajo/Mog%20House%20Final.jpg)