>>1914111521525 (OP) #7

I hope you understand that I’ve only caressed the surface of one culture to afford a passage, in metalepsis, outlining them all. This work is transparently a sort of manifesto, a cauldron bubbling to its acidic zenith, more prosocial than another teenager’s bomb or a warlock’s homebrew.

Every time I wake up, my confusion ferments, these endless metaphors splayed, diffracting around shared modalities, hyperre­alities, the concentrated way you look through the camera above your screen. How can we find a language for this place?

If I stop dreaming, what will happen to this reality? The one that I’m writing in, or the one that I’m writing, or the one that you’re reading? I feel loyal to where/whenever I’m currently occu­pying. If a tree falls in the middle of a forest, or if a text is purged from its thread…

You’ve possessed the banality of my voice. Now you pause to think on your own. You speed ahead as a punkish revolution, not back to the beginning, pray. I anticipate nothing.

So. This really is the end of my story. I’ll confess that tears are welling in my eyes. It’s only silly because who would’ve thought that anyone would read this far? It means more to me than you will ever understand.

Thank you.

This final dream, if I may call it a dream, I expect to sound rather familiar. This could be my last great tangent. It’s silly, I feel as if I’m admiring the sunset for the final time. No, that’s not right. I feel as though everything is accelerating under an

inescapable compression, and not even light can escape. Whatever happens to me, you will go on from this. To be clear, I’m not dying per se, I just hate endings.

You know nothing about me, do you? You read that I’m cry­ing while I type this. My lips are quivering and sore—I can’t help it, I’m sorry. I prostrate to move you. Love moves me. If you remember one thing from our time together, let it be this: we see the clearest through our tears.

I am alone.

I am a real boy.

My life is falling apart.

I don’t know what to do. I often ask myself, ‘What am I good for?’ I’ve spent the last two years home alone staring at the screen. My hard drive is full of esoteric texts like the Ghāyat al-Ḥakīm and the I Ching. My sister makes fun of me publicly, she thinks I know nothing of her accounts. I haven’t made a ‘real’ friend since elementary school. I once said ‘lol’ out loud—literally pro­nounced “lawl”—everyone lol’d. Don’t misread, I’m not bullied! No one cares enough to notice.

I didn’t apply to colleges (and I’m good at the subjects I care about (Ji-eun also got top scores in literature)). I will be evicted when high school is over, as my father has decreed. Online (unsubmitted) work applications are priming new nightmares. No one should hire me, for their sake. I thought about making a YouTube channel, but still crickets from my comment on IU’s Twenty-Three, so that doesn’t bode well. I don’t have money for therapy. If I try to work, I’m sure I’ll have a panic attack, and after the first they’ll just keep coming, because the fear of panicking

becomes its own cause for panic. Not unlike Roko’s Basilisk (DO NOT look this one up if it’s unfamiliar), for I know it will be already too late.

As someone with both bouts of major depression and con­stant dysthymia, comorbid generalized anxiety disorder, agora­phobia, [substance] abuse, complex PTSD, seasonal affective dis­order (SAD), who can’t do a single pull-up, has IBS, needs glasses, lost my retainer, my left arm never healed right after I broke it, attempted beard is patchy with ingrown hairs, backne and scars from excessive scratching, hairline is already receding, and with a lisp, tics, and a stutter. And I’ve never hugged a girl before. Maybe only half are true, which is too much. The worst part is, it’s my fault. I’ve done nothing to fix things.

I know I’m annoying, repetitive, insufferable, I’m the fucking worst. You’ve known since the beginning and kindly said nothing. See through the bullshit. My personality is as opaque as air is limpid, only miming empty promises. I’ll listen for once. WWJD? Don’t think I’m embittered and vengeful. The problem is that I need to care about myself, yet no matter what I do, I can’t. And if I can’t love myself, how can you expect me to care about anyone else?

Nothing in this world is conducive to true friendship. We come of age in enclosures with only insecurity; our community is competition. There’s likes attached to our social capital, letters to our grades, and looks follow us beyond the halls. All of this feed­back with none of the perspective to know what it means, let alone to help mature us. Meanwhile, I crave ignorance but can’t feign it even if I tried.

Be honest, would you like to hang out with me if you saw my face, or if all erudition clattered under the enormity of social mise en scène? My brain’s RAM overloads by weight, 113 tabs of social milieu. If my expression was indeed stunted, if you read my fear as condescension, if I could or would admit to false humility rather than foul reverence. Their success is my bane. I expect you are bet­ter than me, and if you aren’t—if you’re too young or slow, then what business have you with me? I’ve never met my equal; If IU is my equal, then it is only because we both feel. I’m her burden, and she’s my boon. I’ve only love and fear to give. I’m selfish, infantile, uncharismatic, the worst person she would ever know.

AHHHGHsfIUGFEASHOBFHAOAFBVHHSUIHBosbn Ovgudgs;j ao FUKC I’m keeping it. I’m sorry, you’ve no idea, and I’m wasting your GFUCK—You’re reading this because I pre­sented a mystery, and you want to see if I’m guano insane, or if it’s possible to split atoms to meet your love. Yet I fear to submit this post. You’ll ridicule me, so you should, just know I’ve not brought you through this for nothing. You must keep hoping that it’s all possible.

I’ll let you in on one secret now. I’ve seen the real thing, and no drugs are required. I’m aware of the many fads which purport it, including the old TikTok phenomenon of ‘shifting’ into paral­lel universes. Know this: yes, humans can trip out under vibra­tions, of distance and being in two places at once; space is measur­ing itself as one psychoacoustically activates the gate key. Find the Alcubierre drive, enter the black hole. Shifting is merely a redefini­tion of astral projection, remote viewing, ESP, soul-flight, the like. The reality of the phenomenon being, of course, that it’s all in

their head, like everything. Please don’t tread lightly if you choose to practice. Mastery of the self does more than draw you in. You may find not merely yourself but everyone else in there.

And so we move to the final dreams.

Alexa, play Rainbow Connection, Kermit ver.