My Mind is Going (6.4)

Time wavers and falters, stretching out into eternity underneath this star spangled dome. Burning pinpricks of electrical light poke through the thick, viscous summer night, twinkling, glimmering. The black, wet velvet of the sky blankets me and dewy fingers of smooth grass tickle the back of my arms and neck. The night’s drinks have turned to battery acid in my veins and my arteries buzz like filaments. Eroded, rubbed raw by the steady drip, drip, drip of alcohol, my nerves are exposed, to everything, to the secretive whisper of the wind, to the worn cotton of my shirt, to the deep, earthy, buggy smell of the soil. My mind is going. I can feel it. The slow burning and melting of synapses, the smell of burnt grey matter floating in the night air. Shards and fragments of memories, slippery glass layers of self slowly fuse into a hot, white phosphorescent core; my fragile crystalline brain distends and consumes itself like cheap plastic in blue, super nova heat. My metallic consciousness drips onto the grass and liquefied thought seeps into the center of the earth. Stop. I am everywhere. Atoms disassociate into a mist of being and diffuse into space. Electrons cut themselves on the stars; neutrons disappear, engulfed by the glutinous darkness; protons melt into night. It lasts a fraction of second, a sliver of eternity.