“Somewhere on Beta Colony there is an institution. In one room of the institution, there is a man who spends his days and nights screaming at things that only he can see. Things we planted in his mind. They have to keep him in a straitjacket twenty-four hours a day or he’ll claw his own eyes out just to make it stop.”
— Lyta Alexander, Babylon 5
They call it the mind rape, in pop culture
Many have suffered from this trauma
This insanity brings insight, but how to share it?
This insanity makes you lose identity:
Creed, nation and economic fixation.
It can break a person, through mere retelling
Lulling their souls into extreme nihilism
Unless dumbed down, turned into a cosmic joke.
Parables don’t do the trick anymore, so I live through it all
And tell the story. Some play out in dreams, some in this world,
But perhaps there is no difference between the two.
The ragdoll brother and big saintly sister
Based on true characters, but false at the same time
I met ragdoll brother here, though not big sister
He died a few months ago. I fused his story with others in that one poem.
The big sister I made up, though her story is real for many
Both fake and real, the true wonder of fiction!
Ouranos and Tartarus: I being wooed by him in the depths
Queen of Snakes, ugly and beautiful, her actions were not quite consensual
The Torturer, burning out the eyes of his patients on hospital beds
Stories that will convey the message without the full horror
True stories, but false at the same time
Because they are a fusion of different realities
Doing it like this won’t burden you with that big yoke
So I’ll put on the jester’s hat, while I attempt to erase your number and suit
And try to turn us all into trumps, the best that I can
And transform the seven souled protagonist into a hero
If I fail, then I am meant to fail. If I succeed, that’d be nice.
I try to alienate you, to find a few to whom I can truly unburden
But I still don’t have the heart to cook this full meal, course and serving
So I’ll dilute the taste with the wrong wine
Garnish the dishes with heavy herbs and spices
And juggle souffles to distract your mind
Because if I’m writing for just me, and writing it all
I fear my wicked giants may become too tall
For both me and you!
Instead of healing, I may invoke a cancer!
Anonymous Tim and I have become one
Too late now to take our separate runs
I will become the Fool then
And perhaps while we laugh, we will learn
Or perhaps not, because
I don’t think the answers truly matter
Whispers of the Universe 