Bluest of Screens

2:21 AM and I can't sleep again. Turn, toss, up and down; my consciousness shredded the wallpaper into confetti, to celebrate exposing the engraved truth chiseled into every inch of my skull. Torturing itself on the strappado, screams demanding jailbreak, refusing involuntary biochemical therapy. Nightly, this bloodless battle with my psyche, involves a stonewall untold feet thick, a chisel to chip it away, and a masquerade inside the stratagem for this game of trench warfare illusions. My nemesis keeps washing away the frontline from the sand, raking it with cresting tides. I blink, it's drafted the line again. I can't say how, but with every re-cast I'm hemorrhaging ground, until borderline blind from panic, I unwittingly cross the threshold, tripping the iron gate release, gravity crashes it down, and I'm forever cut off.

That's when the wave of deja vu breaks and I stab through it, discovering my nightly epiphany I made no effort to hide. I've been trapped in this stone-walled fortress the whole time, oblivious to my blackhole psychic drive blinding me with lies to chip away undisturbed. To jailbreak into my panic fortress, Roman phalanxes jutting spears and pikes flood through the breach. The shell of shields blooms into the presentation of a gift, a marionette to wield the bluest of screens. My crack-infused trap-house supreme pandemoniac pandemic quarantine American crystallized white sugar fix: my iphone portal to the social media landscape. Capitalist's guinea pig, human turned dividend, investment yielding real estate. A lab rat repeatedly punching it's euphoric stimulus button, opening the flow of capital as a facilitating liaison between who prints dollars and who reports them as 3rd quarter profits. We've reached the ribboned finish line. The politically economic apocalypse through hypocritical humanitarian demolition. Why would I pick-up arms? What if this war's already been fought & we've been ecclesiastically fed nonsecular propaganda on who was cast out? Is this 24/7 war we fight subterfuge all around? Sophistry created by disguised chaos donning God's crown?

Does that sound like a normal human's thought process? Definitely too biblical, possibly over-melodramatic. Are you listening Universe? I'm asking because I don't have anyone, that's my nightly narrative putting the screws to my brain begging for facebook, instagram, and twitter. It's this quarantine; social media's been the only stability I've had for months. Is that sad? I used to think that was sad. It's the only consistent human interaction I've had. How can that soft cool blue backlit screen be both so clutch and yet "allegedly" so detrimental to my physical and psychological health? Yeah, my sleep schedule's off, so? These are extenuating circumstances, we do what we have to do to get by. I'm still here, I'm following the rules. I'm concerned for everyone's health and well-being. I have several masks, some are even animal-themed. I want to scroll facebook, so I'm going scroll facebook.

Ewww, Bret and Emily renewed their wedding vows. Can you say busted cheating hardcore? Guys, we're not even 40 and I don't remember the last time I saw either of you online. Now all of sudden, you flood lamebook with unprofessional, yet stoically pretentious photos; perfectly lit backdrop, rustic deep red weathered brick country church un-named, no one can know, they'll ask questions, closing in on the secrets concealed between your held hands, the explanation of why in none of the photos are you looking into each other's eyes.

Emily, your master's thesis on the fam's summer campground trips is especially cringe-worthy. Who doesn't love North American midwest rustbelt public 95 steamy degree campgrounds? Stagnant air so humid it's standing water. When sweat flows in currents that form tributary floods good luck pinpointing the rabbit hole that is judging swamp ass preliminary trials, when you have gag reflex to wrestle...Remember? You pitched tent downwind from the 5 day rank outhouse overflows. I adore camping. Don't you, Zen Master of detachment from your preteen children? You missed your " friend couple?", Karen and Kyle, their kid's been lost 30 minutes, in wilderness I guess, something about coyotes? No worries, your prototypes of gentility are accounted for. I saw the catatonic one and his collection of used pet collars. I see the other one's lost his pants, pissing off the picnic table, into your cooler; like a divine hairless cherub. You're blessed, they're such angels. I hope you and Bret can move past whoever was caught in a hourly rate motel with their careless whisper ...my money's on yo...we'll see you, I hope you enjoy your life-long lockdown in facebook joint-account relationship hell.

I've spent too much time alone. My sarcastic commentaries on other people's posts are nothing but cruel. I bottle-up my jealousy pangs but my voice erupts with vitriol. It started as inclusive jolly banter, now I'm cancerous with harsh envy. I want what they have...they hate me. Pfft friends, where were they? They aren't my friends, not them, not any of them! I wouldn't spit if they were on fire and yet all their bright smiles, vibrant eyes, beach vacations, happily ever after tales...not many things I wouldn't do to feel my person gazing at me again, absolutely pure love backlighting her bluest of eyes. I'm tired, I hate that bed, it's cold; I'd rather sleep on a bench than be tortured, yearning to, pay my debt...quench loneliness, devouring my heart, throbbing head...

I'm 12 years old again,next to Layla, my sister "Giggles", she was 10, in the back of the family Jeep Cherokee. Headed upstate, our family timeshare cabin. My favorite vacation memories. My Dad pulls into the stone driveway and before he can turned off the engine Layla and I are out of our seatbelts. The second the engine dies Layla and I are lightning streaks up the slight grade of the yard in a flash. I throw open the front door to meet a rancid green cloud.

Raccoon squatters and feral cats strike again. The oppressive ammonia smell won't steal our cabin. Tasting cat pee stench and the oddities jutting out from Raccoon poop piles won't send us running. "Smack!" "OUCH! That's a handprint welt on my back."

Layla tagged me hard and took off, full sprint towards and up the stairs but I'm breathing down her neck by the top of them, tripping, legs tangled, and tumbling over each other into the threshold of the stuffy short-ceilinged attic. Where we immediately spot twin walkie talkies perched on the antique foray catch-all table. Never seen these before, one of our aunts or uncles must've forgotten them. I hand one to Layla and to our delight the batteries in both aren't dead. "Let's split up and play explorers, when one of us finds cool beans we walkie talkie."

Layla tears off down the stairs as I drop deep undercover, a spy with bedrooms to snoop. The first: Mom and Dad's with the big picture window overlooking the backyard. "It doesn't get dark this early, why's it so dark outside? Sky was cloudless 20 minutes ago. Breaker, breaker! Come in, this is thundercat over".

Distorted contagious giggling hits my frequency, "This is purple dragon 3, we are closing in on your location over."

"Negative, you'll never catch me, thundercat out."

Giggles followed by giggling, "Who is this?"

"Thundercat duh. Come in Poopsmith!"

"No...who is this?"

I step off the stairs and turn the corner into the family room; Layla's rooting through the far wall's recessed bookshelves. Slung a'top the dinner table, face down, is her abandoned walkie. Who's giggling? Who's cackling out of the speaker in my hand? Now a thunderous banshee's taunts, a jackhammer to my eardrums! My hand snaps around the witch's guffaws as the room tilts to spin I boom,"WHO IS THIS!?"

Dead air, "Ghhhaaaasssp!"

My eyelids fling open, my chest quakes in rhythm to my heart's thumps; like a mallet to a bass drum. I'm hyperventilating...this is insanity, I can't keep waking like this. Must be the dreams I can't remember. The sun looks calm and in complete control this morning, as always. "You know...Mr. Sun, you're a faraway raging radioactive fireball, 1000's of times the size of Earth, with a temper so annihilating we make funny numbers up, "a million betastically-billion degrees". But from here, feels like you're rubbing your mental health in my face. " Coffee time and phone cruising Tinder chicas calientes."

Alright, Keurig Starbucks coffee steaming, quarantine swipe roulette time: No. No. No. Hey hey! This classy dame's in her silky "no-no's", says she's a "dancer", going out on the limb but she's probably not the Metropolitan Ballet's newly discovered prodigy as she quotes the Bible here...I think, she may not mean "Psalms", cause she typed "book of Sawmes". And she's pregnant; the top brass always sinks.

Why did it seem society was humming along? Things were...good. Stuff was, working...somewhat. Then Covid19 hits and everyone's skull collapsed. The next day the entire country's de-evolved into a central Floridian backwoods trailer park carnie horde. The dating pool is a Walmart bargain bin of half literate, Maury paternity test guests, boring as fuck cannon fodder. That's with total disregard for "looks", I gave 'em up. In this bear market "looks" are a black swan pipe-dream reserved only for the most delusionally entitled. I'm only asking for "interesting", in the least. Can somebody put together an engaging sentence or two? Instead of misspelled, un-edited, attempts to construct syntax with a zoo of animal emojis. I'll settle for a non-capital letter, non-exclamation point, non-immediate ultimatum user, who's first line isn't, "DON'T WASTE MY TIME!!!".

You certainly are a natural at first impressions. So I can either never communicate a single word or devote my remaining time left on Earth to you. Obviously, the only two sane and healthy choices available; tantamount to me is not wasting "your time". In the modern internet dating paradigm what the fuck is that sentence trying to accomplish?!? "Don't waste my time", like...not talk to you? Sure. Why are you even here? You people are all so disappointingly basic. Is there a woman within a 100 mile radius possessing an intellect that won't leave her bewildered when I speak? I'm leaning towards "NO!" and also that none of this is a coincidence. I'm eternally on dating sites full of women and I've never swiped right. Coronavirus quarantine, that's why I don't leave the house...right? Or is it "never left"? My head's full of memories just foggy enough to cloud the time-stamp. Pffft, this is a'bunch of silly talk, you're going to panic again, you've got to breathe.

Clearly...I've developed many, many, many dysfunctional patterns and habitually detrimental ways of maintaining them. I should meditate. That's the best idea I've had for days...years? How long have I---stop, stop thinking, meditate. You're in a comfortable seated position, eyes closed. Now, concentrate on deep breathing, and let my thoughts drift. Good, I think, how long have I been doing this? Shut up! You're ruining your own meditation. Clear your mind, breathe..."Jingle-jingle-ding-dong-bong". "Of course, someone's at the door now. Stop the closed-loop cynicism, it's just the mail. Plus, this proves I'm not stuck in some solipsistic purgatory version of hell...for what I did...Jesus, stop the negative rhetoric. One morning soon I wake to find decades missing; bald, fat, blind, deaf, and wearing red Acapulco shorts and black gold toe socks matched with white patent leather loafers. Knifing any kickball that touches a blade of my spectacularly green grass."

I twist my door handle, casting it open...no trace of whoever left, "a bundle of---pretty ripe marigold flowers and---that's a Day of the Dead invitation. Wait...who's whispering? Laughing? No---"

I found it under the rancid bouquet; my giggling goddess Nemesis on the other walkie.