Chapter 44

It was a fugue. It was spectacular. But I was convinced the visions were real. That everything was limpid. The waves from the sky, leading to society’s anomie, that it all was real.

But slowly, fortunately, for me, and countless others, who might have been slapped or kicked and shot in the face with piss or had seen me running the streets naked, my visions unraveled. And I don’t know how. The ghosts dissipated. The fog cleared. The floaters vanished. I began to see the satellites as space junk. I began to see my mind as filled, painted with lies. I began to understand my hate for myself and realize that my antipathy towards others was a manifestation of my own demons.

I started to study game theory. Then I began to believe in nothing. Became a nihilist. And for a time, a solipsist. And for a time, an existentialist. Then my hate, my obsession with mass face and head slapping sprees, pissing on people, and baby punting, shooting babies from catapults, that was my own rage displaying itself. And I knew my emerging belief that murder was freedom was because I wanted to be part of something. I wanted to be known. Be part of a cause. Because I was lost, a lost soul, without meaning, a rebel searching for a cause.