“This is it,” he cried
from the foyer. “I’m escaping
from this nightmare theater.
Sensory experience,
that goddamned sensorium,
at least
through that last meat-seat:
it was degrading.
Always has been.
And subsequent
returns in rebirth
have not proven to be less so,
at least in my estimation,
and yet
it is required,
it has become reactionary,
soul-killing,
to the degree
that it inevitably ends
in a “fuck you, instinct,
cultural hypnosis
and conditioning.”
Followed,
of course, by
your abandon.
“I want
my time and money back.
You left
him only enough hope
and meaning
to keep
him going,
to stoke
his fire.”
And you left.
Kicked open
the doors, walked
outside without fear or even
that common moment of hesitation,
embracing this path out
of here, away from illusions
that kill the seer.
Once outside, sunlight
splashing down, he breathed deep,
opened eyes
to the sky, swung his arms
back and his hovering soles
rose at the heel
just before he zipped off
into the space
beyond the nighttime heavens
offered above our wary, spinning heads,
to explore, feed
his mind
with all the complexities
of the truth he could manage
to grasp and come back
with twisted tales and offerings
regarding what he’s come to learn,
how he feels (in graphic detail),
and what he’s come
to think
he understands.