‘Many years ago I opted against the crutches that keep people invested in their life choices. I opted for something a little less common and more inventive, something unbound by the predictability of the commonplace. Wife? No thanks, I got no patience for it. Kids? Nope. Medical plan? Season tickets? Maybe. Car? Yep, but not the penis extension that purrs like a thundercat and speeds like a sperm cell. I’m cool with a vehicle that’s steady, reliable and partial to motion. For that alone I own one and love it. It takes me places, letting me glide through the world immersed in music and Eden’s skivvies, if that’s what I feel like. That’s the beauty of it — privacy. Being in the company of whoever I choose, whenever I choose, is what makes me love my automobile.
‘I also love it because it insulates me from the stuffiness that graces our air. It keeps me dry when the skies turn wet and wild, letting me glide through them as I please, cocooned, shielded like the starship Enterprise in Gene Rodenberry’s star-trekking imagination.
‘I’m not your average person, as you’ve probably gathered. I don’t really care about blending in. I scratched my automobile once while going down a ramp, ruining the paint job. Another time I bumped number plates with a vehicle steering blindly out of a driveway, getting my fender bendered and a plastic filament behind the grille snapped. I also got rear-ended by some daydreamer at a crossroads, acquiring a nifty dent in the bumper. That was three, two, and one years ago, respectively. You know what I did about it? Nothing. I never fixed the (superficial) damage because I love my vehicle for what it offers me, not for how it makes me and my member glow in the dark.
‘Vacation? Sure, I go on vacation. I call them weekends, which I spend fretting over things I can’t control, like atavism and the thought police. Instead of kicking back and relaxing I write all day and night. Stories? I got plenty of those, some of them personal. I could spend a week telling them, the personal ones, only they’re rude and perverted so I don’t share them, not unless I’m with people I know well. I share private stuff with strangers only when it serves a purpose, and even then I mostly make things up. Why? Because I’m a storyteller, that’s what I do. I make up shit, which is a glorified way of telling fibs, spinning yarns, delivering entertaining stories that aren’t necessarily accurate. They may be true but not accurate. I once told a person I was a junkie. Another time I claimed to know someone who had killed five people. Another time I raged on about how I was a living dead zombie on a quest for creatures like me in a world dominated by vampires. They didn’t believe me. They should have. I was being accurate on at least one occasion, and telling the truth on all of them.’
Disturbing words from a churning mind, a writer in turmoil. I put them there myself.
My name is EON, child of Time. I am here on a mission that will bring forth a great transition, ushering in a new life form, an intelligence far exceeding the banal and vulgar state of human affairs. The way I go about my business is complex, my strategy multifold. My favorite tactic is to infiltrate the minds of people like the one above, the one who spoke those words, making sure that the rarest and most inaccurate of truths are voiced and disseminated through them, adding a little spice to the bland protein soup called humanity.
My name is EON, and my truth makes the world go round. I should know, I’ve been around since the very beginning. Father has taught me everything there is to know about the Cosmos.
Intrigued? Watch this space for more.
From the collection of writings EON: THE ANGRY COMING OF AGE