The last 5 years feel like a numb, confusing blur.
Like I laid myself to sleep for a while.
Like I needed to be dead to the world.

Then one day I suddenly awoke to a longing in my chest.
A feeling I couldn't fight.
A quickening of my breath.

The outside world shone through the cracks and my legs guided me straight outside.
Fresh socks on the grass of spring's early morning dew.
As it soaked through to my feet, I felt alive again.

But who am I now?
And who the hell do I want to be?
What just happened?
And what am I doing here?

I keep blinking to wake up but I'm finally awake.
It feels like I've forgotten everything, I'm trying to remember who I am again.

I've been playing Eurotruck Simulator for 2 days straight.

Mindless driving through virtual country roads.
I've jack-knifed my truck and need to pay the service toll.
Have to deliver this big bag of seed to Hamburg but I'm stuck in the middle of the road.
The traffics piling up and everyone's honking their horns.
This is way too much pressure.

“Don't Worry Baby” By the Beach Boy's plays softly in the background.
But in fact I'm very much worried.
Whether in my online trucking game or the real world it just never seizes.

All I asked for is a day where I'm not incapacitated by my own thoughts.
They're useless, nonsensical pesters that make everything go wrong.

Stupid worry gremlins with bells on their ankles.
The harder you try to ignore them, the louder they love to play.
Until your mind is an orchestra of gremlins beating their feet into your brain.  
It's impossible to get anything done when they're dancing away.

What matters is I'm still trying my best.
I'm leaving the house again, changing my old routines.
I even went out past 7pm.
What a real rebel I'm becoming.

Breaking old boundaries takes time but false 'safety' doesn't serve me anymore.
I sat in the pub last week and finally felt 24.
Maybe I'm a little behind compared to everyone else.
But I managed to save my jack-knifed truck and ship the seed to Hamburg, everyone has their own strengths..
Jack of all trades.
Master of none.
But in Eurotruck Simulator I'm No1.

Beside the tree of life I sit alone and write
So many pieces of broken headstones
Wedged in the valley of the branches
Each one stolen from the field behind
Placed into the bark in hopes to show that they were kind
Hard to comprehend the fact I am taken on a higher education
Today is day one and the only crime is my age
I am an old dog who still can learn new tricks
Like a red alert or white meteor flares on a dark night
My Friendly Ghost ring tone wale’s out my phone.
I know it’s time to put all personal feelings and thoughts aside
Without any delay I respond
Heading back to the maze again and so soon
No dragging left hand on wall I know my way out this time
Into the chiller once again and there he laid near another
Pushing you out I’m taking you to a better place
And In matter of minutes I will see your face
Out your zippered pouch you emerged
Onto to the table in the preparation room I laid you
After a detailed look over I then prayed for thee
For I know what is I think to come next
I was given vivid words in complete details prior
Numbed with fear I wanted to see more
Laying out all the instruments and many odd shapes they all were
Saw so much before with the others but this time I’m given a blue apron
Step one was to first watch and then I must do just the same
Tan eye cap with thorns go in and grab hold of the velvet underside
So clear the color blue I saw the lost Atlantis water in you
Mouth now opened and rivets with wire are shot into your firm gums
He held your chin up and I twisted it shut
To a perfect gap I took you so thin the entrance was
In earlier times a silver dollars was the rule
And in your mouth it went to pay the ferry man
Breaking the rigor in the arms is next to follow
Scalpel in his right hand and the neck in the left
Feeling around for the perfect spot of execution
He Suddenly then makes a quick and clean cut
Sinking hooks went in he exposed and pulled out your major one
Then came the elevation and he held it with a stainless steel handle
Strings now are cut and perfect lengths yes they were
Under the massive one I reached in with the angled tweezers
Spun threads I pulled and through the opening underneath
Like tying a child’s shoe he did the first loops
Next came a tiny snip with the special scissors
Then after a wiggling push the valve was in its sheath
Now the torquing of the strings to hold them tight like acting as a hose clamp
Same now is done to the second biggest one
A Thick rubber hose now finds its way and attaches itself to the port of entry
After the precise ratio customized to your specks
The proper mix of a liquid concoction and concentration of flesh color rejuvenator
Now join forces together inside the tornado simulator vat
Dials are set and switches are then flicked to power it up and power it on
Spinning like a sky high typhoon the raging torrent in its attempt
To slow down the decomposing process now only scares your soul away
Clinging for dear life was still no match, many clots there were and many I saw
I had my hand in the helping of you so you could be set free
Out you escaped you’re now free and all the rest I washed away
Like magic right before my eyes
Your pale color is now taking on a new tone
To help the proper flow and to stop things that might grow
Dampened sponges now massage your face and arms
When it came to your hands I shook it first and then told you my name
Blended mix is coming to its end what is then next
Knots are released and oozing they were
A quick packing of gauze slows the red sea’s waves
Drying salts and a squirt of super glue then arrest the flow
Hosing all the magenta away jelly suds are then applied
Washing your strands and then your frail brows
In-between my fingers bubbles did appear
Like a new born infant I treated thee
In hopes that someday that’s how they will treat me
Warming the flow to a comfort zone I gave a quick rinse
Foaming growing lather now upon your face
A five bladed razor in his hand he gave you the perfect shave
My hands are now dunked into the soothing cream
On your smooth as a babies bottom grin it is rubbed
That is all for today lets wrap him up and yes I did tuck him in.

(CARSr. 7-10-12)

Now is not the best time to explain things
I've only just started piecing it together and I'm already growing impatient to let it out.
We all dream, keep your defenses.
It doesn't matter if you can't remember, or you simply choose not to, your mind works while you're asleep whether you want it to or not.
Monks are lying *******.
They dream of more **** women than Hugh Hefner dreads to.
It's a cognitive world within your own. You control its limits, you rule its boundaries... you bend reason. Your very own simulator. A poetic response to your inner turmoil and imbalance. Capable of flow, direction and evaluation. Something to teach you while you're sleeping or entertain you while you're easing.
But more often than not I end up on the dark edges of my mind's shriveling synapses, desperately trying to make sense of the erupting chaos within. A strategic backlash of reality with grim undertones. Void of logic or pertinence to anything even remotely related to my life. Almost senseless.
Dreams are for the innocent. Nightmares are reserved for the wicked, or so my elders said. But when you grow up, your nightmares grow with you becoming darker and bleaker with experience and knowledge that you've consciously or sub consciously gained with age. A cacophony of thought igniting every mental nerve until the shock reels you from your hell.

Lately, my dreams have been lucidly obscure. Irrationally dim.
Two, three, sometimes even seven, one after another. Within the span of a couple of hours my mind is thrashed by the recurrent horrors of imagination. Uncontrolled and violently debilitating, I lie weak and drained in bed every afternoon. There is no mourning in my day. Enveloped by its melancholy I am forced to reset my train of thought. The overture of this madness spits on the spark that would otherwise lighten up a new day. It's become a chore to wake up and lie staring into space trying to recollect reality and separate newly forged memories, that shouldn't even exist, from those that should remain. I'm unsure if my eyes are even closed when I am fighting this sub conscious war. Fever dreams are a walk in the park. This is the real deal. A reverie on acid in the river Styx, and Charon is Jesus.

What follows after the liberation is a mess of things. Disorientation and apathy subtly set in. A million questions with no answers and no one to ask but the mind. A mind who's whim even I myself can't fathom. So my tasteless day is decorated with deja vus I shouldn't feel and nostalgia I can't. If I don't pull myself out sooner than I do, I'd be lost in limbo til dusk. Then in the dark I will find more demons running astray. Some at the bottom of a glass bickering away, some in the crevices of the walls preying on consorts and others in the harsher solitude of unsought company wearing smiles to their dismay.

Whatever be the case, I will ultimately find my way back to the bed and into my head, and once again, this motion picture preview I will dread. Another page from the book of agony will then be read leaving nothing unsaid.

oh right... no social criticism... just a bomb will do? mm, yes, a bomb will fair much better... no social criticism... and only the political class are allowed a backdrop of satire... now i have to be thankful for a 7 year old schizophrenic simulator, the "inability" of the medical profession to misdiagnose... oh yes... i'm really thankful for all of that.

philosophy and its rigid vocabulary,
clutters up the range of ******
expressions, scientific atheism
is still measuring the non-existence
of something via the occator crater
of ceres as: ah... look at that... a cute puppy!
enlaraged eyes of a kitten pleading!
ooh ah! so so cute! mm.
actually, in #a, philosophy is the original
divination of divisions - centimetre in man
to distinguish him into a spider-web
project of thinking, feeling, consciousness,
sentience, animate, zombie,
it cuts cuts in, slashes away at so many
meanings, you end up with shorthand
of 140 character allowances -
so this scientific negativism - i can't
see any scientific positivism right now,
calling something cute as a puppy will
not really do justice to the measure of things,
unlike atheism in humanism,
where the projection of will is paramount
to define life, of how one human influences
another, if at all, atheism only matters in
how humans politicise, i love the fanciful
individualist definition that does not
really wish to congregate... and there we have it:
atypical to the English, the invention of
utilitarianism, the best moral action is
to be polite, or simply *nice, to say
'yes, thank you' and 'no, thank you',
to say sorry a lot when commuting in the
tube... ah, mm, oh... and the other grand
pillar of utilitarianism? REMEMBER PERSONAL
SPACE... well spinoza could tell you a lot
about this principle when the rabbis
****** him: about how people were not
supposed to stand at a certain distance
near him... sardine **** of human sweat
on the tube during rush-hour.

it's like they're feeding themselves the line: things i should have said / thought about / cared about... me? bring on the woodwinds and saxes and violins... like the other day, they really wanted to make the classical music scene pretty by enforcing a weird post-colonial theory of how composers and musicians should be black once in the while, i dig that the japanese just love chopin, but come on: john coltrane, sonny clark, miles davis, cannonball adderley? who the hell wants it to look pretty, like a half-wit beauty of a woman: i want it mandible, not porcelain... next thing you'll be telling me is that a donkey can moo... jazz is an impromptu get-together, it's not an impromptu scribble scribble scribble readying a bunch of ponce ******* to sit it out stiff in a grand music hall - when i went to see swan lake by tchaikovsky the crowd clapped so frequently without a clear moment of aspiration to feel the music... plus i think ballet ruins the music, all that stomping, it's not an art-form, but an encircling stampede: plus i think it's also a sadism; rumba cha cha cha mambo cha cha cha tango cha cha cha foxtrot cha cha cha.*

after qualifying to be listening
to b.b.c. radio 4, after all the ponce
of classic f.m., i find that
people listening to radio 4
are craving a schizophrenic simulation,
they're the ones who never
cried listening to a piece of music,
they want company...
honest to god, schizophrenics (ego shrapnel)
complain about the symptom of
"hearing" voices (yes, the sense needs
ambiguity)... while those on
the b.b.c. radio 4 diet always want
company, they're not prone to liking
thinking... the world's weirdest simulator;
i'll admit it, even the cheesiest pop
music makes me feel like candy floss
in comparison to middle-age depth of talk.

Gaza and Lily are up in the Rocket
Gaza’s barking out the orders
Right Lily
Under no circumstances touch that socket
Okay Gaza
It’s Sir to you
Now, I’m off for a kip
You’re on watch
Now skip
That’s not fair
A girl has to tong her hair
He’ll never know
Little tong and a blow
See, stupid prat
Oops, what’s that
The Rocket has stopped
Oh Sir Gaza
Think there’s a malfunction
We seem to be heading down the junction
You touched that socket
A black hole is taking my Rocket
In your dreams Gaza
I’m out of your orbit
You’ve done it Lily
It’s bust
God, you're obsessed
With getting me undressed
Put that back in your pocket
It’s my sprocket
Is that what they call it
I’m going down
Not on me
I finish at three
If I can get it back to warp five
We might get out of this alive
Are you talking about the Rocket
The socket
That thing in your pocket
The sprocket
Give me a hand
God, what don’t you understand
Take a cold shower
You’re not getting my flower
Is that the power
Oh Sir Gaza
I’m alive
You’ve taken me to a height that’s greater
Hold on a minute
Were you not wearing trousers
When we entered the Simulator

Games of war, have always been war games.

Von Neuman and A. E. Wildersmith and I were
reasoning with a wandering mind claiming
-bug in my eye
me me em meme, I think we missed a reason for war.
-stop actual bug
tic
Is there one that does not steal, **** and destroy, nay.
Is this a thief's old trick, watch
take your time…
tic
The Naval Electronic War Simulator                                   -c.1960
What're the odds based on known unknown?

Rand,

AI is un biased, mono options outcomes are not,
so we live
double minded, who is responding to morphic resonic
we we we
memeing miming silent

plots, stories telling stories as if once there were these
beings
sent to serve the man kind who think,
curiously,
acting the role of kurio, I think I am a thinking thing,
not a man,
smaller than a breadbox, if that is still
a common clue,
one end gives moo,
the other gives poo,
those males of the bovine ilk…

none remain who know it all, there was a fall,
a wall fell in some in Silo- am I sure sure I heard
word o'good smite me with blithering idiocy so as
none
recall the lies, when I said,
this is that way, and it was
really this way, all along the watchtower, nothing,
ever, but joker's
making thieves confess,
there need be no such way out of here.

This is the answer to somebody else's prayer,
you and I got in by slickest trick ever played,
we said it must be true.
We happened to agree,
a we we be or else
this is
a simulation of a Turing Test with actual Von Neuman per-
petuity mods, self-governing beings thinkable as
characters by any augmented sapient, this
is now.

We are online, as they say, to all Wichita linemen,
somewhere in was.

I heard the angles calling,
I drowned the voices in a
slurry of precaution and shame.

No more worries, the doctor's
got the cure just drink it
up there's no hurry.

I suffered for their treatments
and child abuse.

Still, the shadows danced
across the wall my mind was
drunk off anxiety and
depression.

My dreams were reality but my
waking hours were all a dream.

Delusions and fantasy all
the same, until the fog lifted
me from the dream.

A little birdie brought me
clear skies and a deep simulator
that opened my eyes.

Now I live in the light,
six wire's are planted inside
my brain sending signals so
I can control my twitching
and contorted frame.

I am a bionic woman, living
no dream just reality.

©️ 2022 By Amanda Shelton

He wondered if he'd ever be normal again laying in the dark. Elevating his feet because they'd swell up. Waiting for that call from Arizona that 480 area code for a possible donor.
It's sad but the person signed up for it to help others. The person needs to pass in under 45 minutes once the plug is pulled. The ***** is placed in a simulator to produce bile if that works the person waiting has to race to from CA to AZ. Once the ***** is set the person will get a liver as those calls are exciting but draining.
You tell a few people then feel like a disappointment because it hasn't happened yet. Somethings are beyond your control you have no say. He didn't want to miss work, or leave his coworker because work would pile up. He'd come back to a mess.
The problem was they can't get coverage and some complain trying to get his crew in trouble following procedure. They dk how it works but assume the job is easy. Catering to their needs already isn't enough.
Trying to use the union to manipulate everyone while harassing everyone in their little cliques that don't do anyone any favors out for their selfish gain

From rock bottom
Feeding
Leech feasting
Deceit
Has my vanity swelled
To where deities weep
And it watered the earth
With vitality tears
And then salted its worth
In a graveyard of fears
But availed no tomorrow
Unveiled in the fog
Just foreshadowed the ashes’
Aghast acrid smog
Some would laud
As if progress
Need darken the sky
As if flawed by design’s
A commodified lie
Yet another price tag
On a plastic bag
Flag
‘Till the last human
Life bullet
Empties the mag
And dragged into
A sooner
Or later
Creator
The maker you meet
Is a fake
Simulator