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HERE BE THE CALANDER MAKER
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No one sees me as I walk down the hall. No one acknowledges me as I blast by them, leaving a metallic tang in the air behind me. The ugly flourescent light rebounds yet from my form, and that light enters their eyes, reversing as it passes though their gelled globes. The image still contacts their retina, which sends it up the spinal cord, through the brain stem, and into the image center of the brain, which reverses the picture once more. This is done in one quarter of a second, and three more times the message is sent before I pass out of an individual's view. But they still do not see me. There is nothing wrong with their eyes, but to me, they are blind.
Because they do not wish to see me, I do not exist. They refuse to acknowledge that I exist, because to do so would force them to see themselves as they are, not as their precious ego says they are. The only time they come close to acknowledging my existence is when they move aside in their frightened little herds to let me pass. And of course they let me pass, because the only thing worse than actually seeing me would be touching me, feeling that anger and psychic tension be passed to them, to have it strip away a few of their illusions and to tell them the truth about themselves.
They do not see me, because they do not understand me. The world without illusions, to them, is a world without life. They keep the real world at bay with their cell phones and computer, their friends and their gossip; this veneer of civilization is just that. Only a veneer, and when they touch me that veneer is scratched, and they see a hint of what lies beneath. And they are terrified my it, thus, by extension, they are terrified of me, because I remove their illusions, I leave a trail of dead illusions behind me, the anger I hold flowing out and destroying the pleasant falsehoods that these creatures base their lives upon.
I am heedless, pausing only to decide that they deserve it. They have their illusions, but what lies beneath comes out in other ways, masked ways, ways that are considered acceptable to the lies. And it is more vicious for the containment. They fear what Lies beneath, even as it controls them. Since I reveal this, I am anathema. No one is willing to or capable of controlling me, except others like me who are just hat; like me. They don't want to have to worry about someone or something else; they don’t want to bother. Just like me. But my anger is freer flowing, because I care less. Let those others feel it, let them wonder in the sooty, mean little darkness of their collective soul.
This is what has transpired. At least the thought burns though me as I see the fear in the eyes of the others, someone had the heart to remove my illusions. And all I long for is rest, for a moment, to be one. To not have to worry about the precious ego of others, to not be confronted by a welter of emotions and hopes. All I want is a silence. But there will be no silence. There will be no rest. Not ever
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