When everything falls apart


“Tell me something interesting,” she said.

“About what?” he asked.

“About me,” she giggled.

He set the phone on speaker and put it on the desk and slumped in his chair and then stared at his hands. A spider walked across his palm and then onto the other side of his hand and he turned his hands over and on both of them dozens of spiders marched around appearing like they’d hatched from the pores of his skin.

He chuckled and smiled.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“I see spiders.”

His mouth hung open mesmerized by the sight.

“Oh?” she asked.


He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a few seconds and when he opened them the spiders were gone. He sat up and checked his hands flipping them back and forth palm and backhand. He looked in his lap.

“What the fuck,” he said.

He got on the ground and laid flat on his back looked up at the bottom of his desk. Nothing.

“Where’d they go?” he asked.

“Who? The spiders?”

“Yeah, they were here and then…huh.”

He stood up and looked around the room. The white walls turned pink, then violet, then white, then pink and shimmered and vibrated, the color reverberating like something from beyond reality was trying to shake the color out of its shape and into something wholly distinct. His mouth hung open and he touched the wall and the color seeped off and onto his hand like goop leaving a smear of ivory white on the wall where his hand had been.

“No way,” he said.

He looked at the lights. They didn’t change colors. He ran his hands across the drywall feeling the grooves and edges of the texture and leaving a colorless streak in its wake. He hoped there’d be some secret and as his palms caressed the wall it sent sensations into his body causing him to cringe and shudder with it as if the grooves and ridges were a type of brail scribed and detailed in some way not meant for humans to understand and his mere act of trying incited punishment.

He backed away from the wall and went to his bookshelf searching for something– some type of explanation as to what is happening. Maybe it was a glitch. Something went awry. Now everything was coming down.

Was he prepared? When the machine collapsed was he ready to wake up on the other side? Was this how it was supposed to end? Hallucinations and disappearances? Or was he trapped in this place? Trapped in the twilight of waking and sleeping, cursed in the algorithm of the machine where no whole number dared to enter, where only fractions of reality existed. Forever kept in a looped sequence of 0.111E onward and forever. Too much to be zero too little to be one. It will never end because it never began.

They’re probably screaming on the other side for me to wake up. Shaking me and beating me but I’ll never leave this place to return.

It racked his brain too much and he couldn’t concentrate on anything.

He backed away from the bookcase and sat on the edge of the bed breathing deeply. Sweat poured out from his head and his palms became soaked and he rubbed them on his jeans then through his hair and then cradled his head in his hands.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fucking FUCK.”

The ground swirled ebbing and bobbing gently like it were water. He closed his eyes tight but patterns shot out behind his eyelids like curtains with mandala patterns took place behind his eyelids, shimmering and waving like banners. He gasped and fell back onto his bed.

“Babe,” she said. “Are you ok?”

“I don’t know,” he said gasping. “I really don’t know. Is it happening to you too?”

“No,” she sighed. “You know why?”


“I didn’t eat fucking mushrooms.”

Just Keep Going

“Why are you so tired all the time lately?” His friend asked.

He turned his head to him, his eyelids shrouded in black, his eyes glossed over, “I don’t know.”

“Well cut it out!” He laughed.

The man sighed and looked back on to his computer. He knew why. He didn’t feel like talking about it because he knew that route. It wouldn’t solve anything. Getting things off your chest simply doesn’t help him. It makes it worse.

He also knew all that any sympathy or “empathy” shown would be an act. So what was the point? And it was over a girl. Guys never get hung up on girls anymore. Dudes aren’t fragile these days. Only the losers are.

He looked onto his computer and surfed around youtube. He played songs with album covers and would just stare and imagine himself playing the songs and being set free.

What’s the point? Why am I still alive? No. Don’t think like that.

He couldn’t stop his mind from wondering.

If I went home tonight and killed myself they would have to clean out my room. I would be killing myself over a stupid reason. She loves me but doesn’t want to be with me. That’s enough to set this off. That’s enough for me to see through the “illusion of life.” What’s the point of life is love isn’t happening?

He thought about what she was doing and wanted to cry out, but couldn’t, because he can’t cry.

“Hey, you alright?” His boss asked.

He looked up with his eyes and met his boss’s. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

He felt annoyed but quelled it, “yeah I’m sure, just tired.”

“Okay.” His boss’s eyes looked skeptical.

He knows I’m lying.

He would drive home in his car with no A/C  in 100 degree weather and would sweat too much into his shirt and would feel dehydrated and would stumble into his room  and strip down to his underwear and would spin a record and lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.

He looked at the alcohol that sat on his bookshelf.

Don’t do it. You’ll go too far. Music. That’s all I need. But she’s not feeling like this. What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point?

He didn’t move for 6 hours. He might as well have died. He sure did want to.