End Of No Existence

Forget how I’m communicating with you (language). These written words are merely an interpretation of feelings and emotions. Just take it for fact that I can talk. And if I could talk, the following is what I would say: My Mother is frightened. That much I know. She is too young to be a mother, but a mother she must and will be. She has a phobia of giving birth – imagine a male passing a grapefruit thru his bottom...that’s exactly how she feels. So afraid. Not of the temporary pain, but of the permanent responsibility. She will hyperventilate when it comes down to it, alone and depressed – not the most endearing of combinations. She has problems with alcohol (not the best for me), and is vulnerable to infections, radiation, a lack of iron, and other basic nutritional deficiencies (although I do still maintain hope, got to always maintain hope). Hope no matter what. My mother is unemployed. Sacked from the factory plant for becoming pregnant. Because of me. Yup, that’s my fault. I’ll take it on my not-quite-yet-developed chin. She took it like a man, bless (although, obviously, she’s a woman). I’m just a foetus in gestation. Three trimesters and I’m out. Just one short dreamy period of fertilization. Ten weeks equal my first basic form. A prenatal fairytale. Sperm, ovium, fallupion tubes...fifty percent of my mum...and I’ll be done. A worthwhile bun cooked in a trembling oven. Okay, here we go regarding my systems: Nervous – kicking in. Circulatory – kicking in. Digestive – kicking in. Muscular – kicking in. Respiratory – kicking in. All good to go. Green light Huston. Huston, we have a green light. Nearly ready to be born...ah. 

I’m making sucking motions. I’ve opened my eyes. I can see my nipples and hair follicles, the fingerprints on my opposing thumbs, their nails, and my transparent skin. I’ve just clenched my fist in anticipation of a violent cosmos. This is metabolic change! Luvin’ it! Come on! I can sense my mother’s pheromones, her sweat. She’s so fearful. I’m her first. I’m so concerned. Am I normal? Will I be okay for her? I look normal, to me. But whatever shall I be, in life? Whatever shall I be? Who is my dad? Who is my father? Does he work? Has he family? Will I meet him? Will he love me? Is he (or was he...) a good man? Do I care? A Mother is enough. What good is good in a violent cosmos?

Contractions. Here we go. What’s coming? I feel I’ve been here before. Perhaps as my mother. Maybe that’s why I know so much about her. But she’s not even dead yet, so how could I become reincarnated as her? Maybe her mother then. Maybe my grandmother. All I know is this: I DO NOT want to be enslaved to mind control! Please not a mind control victim! You curse of the twentieth century, do not dare befall me! Not again! I have been here before! Rather be bushwhacked and hacked-up by a gaggle of cave-dwelling savage Indians after a rodeo. Rather a motiveless murder by a knife-obsessed psycho after a Las Vegas tit show. Rather a philanthropist hero getting beheaded by terrorists on the internet being viewed by Smartphone viewers on pay-as-you-go. Anything but that ongoing relentless spiritual torment that is mind control!! Eats at one's heart and soul!! Devours you from the inside out until the outer is rotten whole!! I have...I have...I HAVE been here before...my manifest destiny and reckoning are in the hands of something higher now though. I pray and hope (hope!) that their attention to the universe bears in mind my existence. Because I am coming into existence. And I intend to make a difference. Have to go now, my mother is screaming. All I can hear is, “Push,”...”Push...” 

It’s okay. Mum. It’s okay. I hope.

Zombie Publications 2017