Riding the subway, my buzz is starting to falter.
I took a hit after work to hold me through, but maybe I miss-judged the potency or the dosage because I’m drifting up through the levels of awareness.
I’m dangerously close to seeing.
I don’t care to see, just drift from work to home in a fog. Seeing is awareness. Awareness of the humanity around me.
I wish to remain oblivious.
I see a boot, a rain boot brightly colored I glance up and it’s a girl.
I don’t do well with humanity, it’s chaotic and wet and sticky. I work with machines. They are predictable.
I used to be normal, or pass as normal at one time. With a family and kids and a wife, then something happened and I changed. Now I prefer machines.
I’m in trouble, I can feel it welling up inside, the awareness, the walls of humanity are pressing. The smells the textures.
God help me…,
©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2012, written entirely on my iPhone.