Waking Dreams & Nightmares, all a fog!

My metallic flesh is periodically updated with text to notify me of my latest agenda. The process involves the ink travelling radially outwards from my bone marrow (ink runs through my machinery) and piercing through faux-nerves and muscle to form the words on the surface. This ink is special and I love and adore it, there are cans and cans of it on my shelf and it can permeate through my metal.

The agendas are decided by me, I think, but what I think is uncertain in its validity because there is a chance that the people outside (I talk to them through this interface on the wall next to the ink) are making nefarious plans. And maybe those plans involve–

They’re quite nice people, don’t get me wrong. Just I’m uncertain at times when I look at them. Uncertain if their flesh is real, if it isn’t all just holograms and illusions. Uncertain if they’re actually– there’s good evidence that they’re actually genuine, yes, there’s evidence they are people (human or not doesn’t matter), there’s evidence that they can be trusted. There is evidence. I remind myself, over and over and over. There is evidence they can be trusted. They are kind and even though there are occasional small arguments, such a thing is a natural part of human interaction and culminates either in civil discussion when all parties have cooled down, or it results in someone being an asshole and then the friendship drifts apart. And for the most part, these people are quite nice. And kind. Kind mostly. And they fix their faults when they see them.

But here’s a little message I see from one of them (“hello hi yes here’s a little part of my life I am sharing look at this thing I made” see look normal interaction) and YET! Uncertainty (normal interaction there is noth– stop looking so deep into it), there’s this creeping sense of distrust crawling up like spiders up my back and up my neck and the distrust’s legs are creaky, the feet grow bloody as they make ANOTHER AND ANOTHER AND ANOTHER run up and down my neck. Friend I ignore, I’m uncertain if– the suspicion of malicious intent crawls so irrational, spelling out suspicions of things that they might be doing because my perception cannot be trusted, the cameras which have long since replaced my eyes are faulty. The skin was always flawed too, breaking out into hives of buzzing bees and getting infested with ants beneath it, ants beneath the skin of my face crawling amongst the muscles and making them into their bedsheets and crawling and crawling and crawling beneath the skin and spreading their chemicals around… yes, the metal skin was a good thing to opt for.

And that’s why I love the ink too. The ink. The ink penetrates through the metallic skin and allows me to function.

It is rational, the ink. Most of the time, at least. The ink on my arms, at least. It seeps up and up and up and I can feel it pushing against my– it tells me to get some nutrients. Okay. And go on a walk. Got it. And sleep. Okay, okay, sound advice, all of that.

Perhaps I will avoid talking to my friends just briefly until I can talk to them normally. Until the suspicion is cast off. The suspicion they do not deserve (do they do they do they– no they don’t shut up shut up) would be too painful were I to see my metallic skin melt, melt and destroy all the structure that prevents me from taking such ridiculous actions.

There is ink on my legs and my legs throb. My muscles are still real, and my nerves never were (the evidence for this claim? faulty, but here’s how the logic goes: they don’t work properly and yet they appear to be in perfect working order when examined and yet they symptom-dance all over the place anyhow and so they must not be real nerves and simply electricity conducting faultily and perhaps someday they will malfunction so bad there will be an electric fire and the electricity will conduct itself through my skin, my metal skin, and the electrocution and electric fire will all burn me to a crisp and it will be all well and good and for the better; but the evidence I just presented was, obviously, faulty, so take it with a grain of salt and please do not electrolyse the salt as I do not want sodium and chlorine in my system), but all the while, regardless of any changes, my legs still malfunctioned quite a fair bit. Buckling and such. Throbbing and all. Pain and pain and pain and pain, and surprisingly surpassing the arms in that as the arms aren’t whiny anymore as they understand their work better. And so of course the ink is more productive on my arms than it is on my useless legs.

So. My arms take notice of the screams spelled out by the ink on my legs. The agenda for the day conflicts with the screams, it appears. So the arm etches out, “AVOID AGORAPHOBIA, GO OUTSIDE, NO ONE IS WATCHING YOU AND EVEN IF THEY ARE FUCK ’EM BECAUSE YOU’RE STILL PRETTY SAFE YOU ARE LITERALLY MADE OF METAL JUST STRANGLE ANYONE WHO ENDANGERS YOU IT’S FINE GO ON A WALK AVOID AGORAPHOBIA.” And the legs keep etching out, “plans and schemes and secrets behind your backs and betrayal possibly from your friends TRUST NO ONE and you’re being watched you’re BEING WATCHED so do not make yourself noticeable in the slightest and poison snakes cold as ice the cold is part of a conspiracy to make you more vulnerable to the TRICKS and SCHEMES and BACKSTABBING being planned by those you think are friends and if you go outside the plans will be revealed for what they are which is betrayal and danger and”

Okay, I believe that is enough of that.

Avoid agoraphobia. That is nice. That is sound advice. I am not being watched. I am not being watched. I am not being watched. I am not being watched. I am not being watched. I am not being watched. I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked. I am not being stalked.

Okay. There it is, the gate. It is real. The gate has been opened. By me. I am opening the gate. The gate is real. I am real. My hand which is opening the gate is real. The waters outside the gate are real. The sea, which gazes back at me– NO IT DOESN’T. The sea isn’t sentient. The sea isn’t sentient. It is not watching. It is not observing. It is not judging.

Anyway, yes, what? The sea. The sea is real, and it’s right outside the gate. I allow my body to morph into a sailing ship (or a duck shape…? honestly, my friends have differing opinions on what I look like in my second natural form, certainly it is a form which allows for smooth sailing [I can go through even the fiercest of storms! although the seas are calm today outside and it’s peaceful so I don’t really have to, thank goodness] but there’s this little joke-debate over whether I look like the Titanic, or a duck, or a ship designed to look like a duck, or a duck designed to look like a ship) and I am real and the sea is real. As of now, the sea is calm. Not because it has a mind and can perceive that things are okay (BECAUSE THAT WOULD MEAN IT’S PLANNING IT SAW THAT PICTURE OF THE FOOD THAT LOOKS TOO TOO MUCH LIKE HUMAN ORGANS BUT THE FOOD WAS NOT RAW HUMAN ORGANS EXCEPT I VERY MUCH PERCEIVED IT AS SUCH ALTHOUGH THIS IS FALSE THAT IT WAS HUMAN ORGANS, IT ISN’T; the ink is seeping into the water, the suspicions are irrational they are irrational the legs are part of the ship which is underwater and the ink DISSOLVES, thankfully; the agendas are on the upper part of the ship), and the sea is calm. So things are okay.

I think my friends’ fortresses are a bit nearby. Perhaps I will float around a little. Perhaps catch a glimpse of my friends, or not. The leg ink is ridiculous. Also there’s a chance the nerve fires start and break down my entire structure and I sink to the depths and die on the sea floor. My friends would not like that. They’d prefer me alive. I also prefer my friends alive, so I suppose it makes sense they also feel the same about me.

I probably will not die right now. I have floated around a lot before. And the legs have screamed worse things, too. The legs have caught on fire and nearly killed me before. I told some of my friends about that. Just a few. Just a few. Let slip. They were scared and I hate that and I’d rather prefer they never see that because everyone’s metal skin gets a little melty at times (if they’ve had to get metal skin at this point, that is) and just… why add more news of potential sinking vessels to all the fear and anxieties of this world?

They are concerned (kind & caring & that’s just what a friend does) but it would be better if they kept the concern for someone else (and I don’t deserve them) as it is near inevitable that I sink someday.

I will not sink today. I do think it is inevitable. I do think it inevitable that I will catch on fire, melt to death and have my remains sink and sink and sink. I will burn and melt and drown and choke on the seawater, this is inevitable (the evidence for this is faulty and this statement hinges mainly on a strong irrational conviction of mine; however, I have grown tired of fighting the irrationality at the moment so I may as well indulge in this one a little since at least it bears the vague resemblance to some type of narrative, a narrative of tragedy; an unnecessary narrative to cling onto, of course, as it may not be true, but I just want to float on the sea waters for now so shut up even if it’s rational thought just shut up there were beehives on my old skin before I got it replaced and the bees kept buzzing and buzzing and buzzing with words which weren’t mine and I got so TIRED and this is just like that; even rational words, those can be put aside for later, just shut up for now), but it is far off into the future. I do not know how far.

But I will not sink today. Not right now. This seems like a reasonable thing to believe.

I will not sink.

I will simply float on the sea and just let the leg ink dissolve. Just let the bone marrow eject the irrational ink and feel the jets shooting past my organs. A poison leaving.

Just float on the sea. Don’t think too much about it. Am I a duck, or a ship, or a ship resembling a duck, or a duck resembling a ship? Don’t think too much about it (although that line of thought is a pretty fun one to think about so I don’t mind that one much). Let the ink seep away and there is nothing in my skull for now.

The sea is calm. All is okay, even if just for now.