The following is an excerpt of chapter I of August 2015: A Novel in the Making by the Amazin’ Sardine. Many thanks to Mazen Zahreddine for sharing his work. So without further ado:
Being insane is a lot of things, except for one thing I guess, which is being sane. So yeah. And the distinction between them is strikingly obvious to those who have the sickness, and I can spot in a crowd of hundreds the dozens who have special friends. And the world is like a hall of mirrors, with every reality mirroring a thousand others and none of them real, except if all of them, then they are, but only if.
In any case, I think I have some explaining to do after my latest episode so I will start with that. Actually I will start with “Sorry for fuckin’ everything” whatever it is that I did and that I conveniently don’t remember. It is hard for me to remember the things that matter to you and you have to understand that an insane mind is a very loud place. Being insane is very loud. And sometimes you wonder… you wonder what would life have been like without the constant noise. And the alternative is worse. A death of everything. The death-pills I call them.
An obliteration of fuckin’ everything. A wish to cut one’s throat with a fuckin’ fork but with no energy to lift it. A wish never translating to a need. At least when you’re insane the noises sometimes are all in synch and the now smells of glory and radiates with white heat and there are 8s all over the sky. But you know such an amount of 8s in the sky cannot be but a travesty of the holy whole one 8. So it’s brief. And most of the times the now is a pulsating green horror jungle-dungeon, with black slithering shiny rusty roots. And Violet, the voice of 9, who is twice my height whatever height I happen to be on that particular day, screaming at me: You’re shit, if shit could shit and shat that’s you you shitty shit, and other remarks to that effect.
All of the insane people I know are miserable, but none miserable enough to agree to die from the inside. They would rather have death than take the pill. Insane people take the death-pill for one reason: to stop hurting their family. It is a willingness to be trapped in an aquarium and watch your family live happily for once. It is a nice feeling I admit. And you take comfort in a special kind of martyrdom, one where death is a choice, and resurrection is a choice.
Not hurting my family is no longer an option because I left. Yes, I left. I broke free from the aquarium in the dead of the night. I stopped taking the pills and Gloria’s voice came in all white and warm, Gloria the Voice of possibilities, countless cuts of 2s, and pairs of infinities releasing 3s. “Now, boy, you embark on the adventure of a lifetime.” And Gloria held her hand above her clitoris and her clitoris started overflowing with rose scented pink lava, she coated two fingers with saliva and thrust those in and a flood of warm colors with protruding veins washed over me seventy seven times and then as I was washed ashore with cum still dripping from the ceiling, she whispered: Go child, I bless you.
So I was resurrected like a fuckin’ Phoenician Phoenix with a gigantic penis. The now was an erect phallus breaking the ground in two and rising to shade the fuckin’ sun. I am here, world. Hide your daughter world if you like, yet your daughter was wriggling, giggling, only rising for deep shots of icy breaths for the whole duration of a demonic night and I have impregnated her with a thousand me that will explode one day when you least expect it. Probably during a family dinner.
So I went. And I have seen many things. For all those who wanted to know where I was, and they are few, I will tell you now and if you don’t believe me, then that will make two of us.
Stay tuned for part II of this chapter! Go ahead and share it!
Feature image credit: Tina Phillips